


lovers in a past life

by LeahRocky



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: #AU, #Gay pining, 1932, 1969, 1999, Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier Are Best Friends, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak is a Mess, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier-centric, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Gay Richie Tozier, Historical, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Love at First Sight, M/M, Past Lives, Past life, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Repression, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2020-12-14 05:11:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 56,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21010289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeahRocky/pseuds/LeahRocky
Summary: We were lovers in a past life, I can see it in your green eyesEddie and Richie have loved each other for eons. Time and time again, their souls have found each other, and they've fallen in love, soulmates from the dawn of life. They've found eternity in each other, life after life, through every struggle and every fight. Each chapter is a different life for them, and explores a different time where Eddie and Richie fell in love. Within the same universe as the events of It, but with the promise that what happened wasn't the end for their souls, for their love.Each chapter can be read as its own story, or all together as one.





	1. December 31st, 1999

**Author's Note:**

> (Some timelines will overlap, like this one with the original timeline) Also welcome to the first life! Their last names are different, because they'll always be different for each life that they've lived. That way it will also be super clear if I ever want to revisit one of their lives. 
> 
> Also, this idea was heavily inspired by Kesha's Past Lives. I really recommend listening to the song, it gave me solace when It Chapter 2 murdered me.

** New York City**

“_This is the first day of my life_

_Glad I didn’t die before I met you_

_But now I don’t care; I could go anywhere with you”_

_-Bright Eyes_

_“Your lips my lips_

_Apocalypse.”_

_-Cigarettes after Sex_

Harsh sunlight streamed through the windows of Eddie Gellar’s chilly New York City apartment. He stirred, memories of a dream retreating from his mind, leaving only the ghost of images of high school football games, a boy with slick black hair, and Bobby Darin playing through a jukebox. This dream was familiar and frequent, and it usually left him feeling warm inside, like the day before him was guaranteed to end on a good note.

That was not the case for today.

Because, today was the end of the fucking world. Y2K. The big one. Eddie knew it. He made it to the ripe old age of 22 and then the earth had to turn over on the dawn of the internet age. Everything was going to hell and Eddie knew he was going right down with it. First the computers would all reset, losing millions of dollars, sending the stock markets to shit, and people to anarchy, then the planes would come crashing down in a fiery blaze and New Yorkers would swarm to the streets raiding for food. Then the damn nukes would go off and obliterate it all. Maybe he would be buried in the massive earthquake that was meant to come next, swallowing him, _down, down, down…._

_Shit_. His breath was already racing against him. As he’s done a million times before, he’s reaching for his inhaler in his nightside table. So early and he already was having an asthma attack and was shooting the stream of medicine directly into his lungs, praying for sweet relief from the panic of his impending doom. Yeah, this day was going to suck. He dragged himself out of bed and to his closet, wondering what exactly one was to wear on the last day of their life, when his landline started ringing from the kitchen. He rushed to the kitchen, where his roommate Ben was eating pop-tarts and wearing a pair of headphones so obnoxiously big, that Eddie knew instantly that Ben couldn’t hear a word he said, much less the phone ringing, just a few feet away from him.

Eddie rolled his eyes before traipsing himself around Ben and reaching the phone on its fourth ring. The movement caused Ben to finally stir from his trance, and he gave a sheepish smile, as he lifted his headphones off. The clashing murmurs of Blink 182 accosted Eddie’s ears, and he had to stop himself from yelling at Ben _again_ about the dangers of listening to headphones too loudly.

Instead, he picked up the phone, to an equally loud and annoying sound, the barking laugh of none other than Richie Kennedy.

“Hello Eddie Spaghetti, what’s your favorite scary movie?” clashed through the phone.

“Great, I already regret watching that movie with you, asshole,” Eddie groaned.

“No, you don’t. You loved our little cuddle session,” Richie said.

“Richie!” Eddie barked, flames of embarrassment and shame running up his back. It wasn’t his fault that the movie had been so scary. He didn’t even mean to hide under Richie’s arms; they were just so damn long and gangly that they did a really good job of shutting the movie out. He yanked himself away once he realized what he was doing, anyway. It didn’t mean anything. “Why the fuck did you call?”

“‘Ello, I’m just doing my due diligence and ensuring that you, lovely wee-little Ben, and of course your _dahhling_ mother will be in attendance at my extremely classy and very formal party tonight,” drawled Richie in a horrible British accent

“No, I already told you I’m not going.” He had to be firm. This was him being firm. He didn’t want to go to Richie’s stupid party and hang around stupid New Yorkers on his last night alive.

“Eddie, come on! What else could you possibly be doing on the event of the century? Fuck- more like the event of the new millenia! Don’t you understand the _importance_ of it all?” whined Richie.

“Yes, it’s all very signif-”

“What, do you have a date or something?” Richie said, suddenly sounding, if only slightly, actually upset.

“No-”

“No hot date to really wel-_come_ you into the new year?” Richie said, jovial again.

“No! I just…” Eddie looked around the apartment, begging for an excuse to pop into his mind. If he told Richie it was because he knew the world was ending, well, he might be dead in a few hours but he didn’t want a preview of Hell so quickly.

“Eds, could it be that you actually believe those crazy yelling people in Times Square, rattling on about how the clocks are gonna hit zero and explode or something?” Richie asked, as usual having dipped into Eddie’s mind, and come out with the truth wrapped around his finger, truth that Eddie wasn’t ready to share.

Eddie groaned, again.

“Oh Eddie, I like that sound you’re making. Sounds a lot like your mom when-”

Eddie slammed the phone down.

It rang again, almost instantaneously. With a roll of his eyes, Eddie picked it up, but didn’t say anything.

“Listen, cutie, if you’re not going to come for you, or even for me, which I find awfully hard to believe, at least come for Ben. You see, there’s this girl that I’ve invited, and yes she is goddamned gorgeous. I’m lookin’ to play cupid and end his, what, 23 year dry spell?”

“What, you’re not interested in her?” Eddie asked.

“No, not quite. Anyways, I’ll have my own date.”

“Oh,” Eddie said, his heart stuttering in his chest. Must be his impending doom or something.

“Yeah, I’m picking up your mom at seven.”

“Goddamnnit Richie. Fine, fuck you and fuck everything you’re about. I’ll go, but only cause you played the Ben card. I’m not fucking staying until midnight though, and that’s a goddamned promise.”

“Then who will be your midnight kiss?”

“I guess the kiss of fucking death,” Eddie said and hung up the phone.

He turned to Ben, “I want you to know, that I’m going to drag myself to this party all for you. Do you know how badly I don’t want to go?”

“Hey- what did I do?” Ben asked, holding back a giggle in his throat.

“Richie has a date for you,” Eddie said, as he dragged his hands through his still unwashed hair.

“For me? That’s surprisingly thoughtful coming from Richie Fucking Kennedy, the man who I’ve seen actively repell any girl who has the misfortune you bringing them around.”

“Yeah, that fuckface once told a girl I was with that I would only have sex with her if she dressed up in all leather and I got to call her mommy,” Eddie said, shuddering at the memory of trying to convince her that Richie was just messing with her. It didn’t work, and he never heard from her again. Looking back, though, knowing what he knows now, he didn’t really mind.

“So, are we going to this trashy party?” Ben asked, and Eddie could tell how much he was trying to conceal the hope in his voice. It broke down his final hold-up.

“Yeah. Why not. Maybe I can drink myself to death before the world ends anyways,” Eddie said as he started to walk back to his room.

Right before he reached his door though, Ben cleared his throat, causing Eddie to turn around.

“Eddie, do you actually think the world is going to end tonight?” Ben’s eyebrows were furrowed, and his eyes revealed more concern than Eddie was sure he had meant.

Eddie huffed and turned around, before he stormed his way to the bathroom. He knew Ben would never make fun of him, but the embarrassment of accepting what everyone else had laughed off so easily was sending pulsing heat through his body. That, combined with the fear and the suffocating nature of midnight sprinting right at him, was sending him into another panic attack. Or asthma attack. He didn’t really care about the specifics anymore. All he knew was that he needed his inhaler right now, or he’d be dying a bit early for the party. With a sickening lurch of his mind, he wondered if that was really such a bad thing anyways.

He reached straight for the good stuff in his medicine cabinet, the bottle, that was emptier than he wanted to admit, of tiny little white Xanax pills. He popped the delicate tablets in his mouth, with the fluid ease of practice and dry-swallowed them down. It was going to be a long, final day.

-

It hit 8pm and Eddie had barely even realized. The Xanax had made him loopy, really loopy. His room was swimming in front of him and he felt like he wasn’t even there. He was sticky and sweaty and his skin felt like cotton had been jammed under it. Pretty crap deal, if you asked him. He wanted the Xanax to make him feel like he had been swallowed by a swimming pool. He yearned to be cool and detached, the sounds of the apocalypse nothing but a muffled echo, far away from him. He wanted to drown in peace. He was going to die tonight, that much he knew. He had known for a while.

But his apartment was bare of the necessities for toughing it out and surviving. He hadn’t stock-piled canned food and water bottles, and he still hadn’t set foot in any sort of camping store. For fuck’s sake, he was still in New York, not buried underground in Bumfuck Nowhere, Nebraska. Instead, Eddie had accepted that there was no point fighting it when New York would descend into Hell. Eddie Gellar was going to die. But he wasn’t afraid. Well, he was afraid of dying, and pain, and blood. The truth of it, though, was that he wasn’t afraid of death. Not now. Not where he was in life. He wasn’t afraid, because on the realization of his impending doom, now almost over a year ago, on the sudden shock of it so close and so painful and so here, a truth, that had been buried deep within him, under layers of mud and muck and mulch, had uprooted itself with crystal clear urgency.

Eddie Gellar was gay.

Eddie was dramatically, painfully, shockingly gay. And he despised it. He knew that gay was wrong, dirty, bad, sinful.

The word _gay_ itself brought forth memories or the curses his mother would sling about. She would do so with such ease, such passion, such normality. It became all Eddie understood. News about gay rights movements? ‘_Dirty men, ridiculing God.'_ Ellen Degeneres coming out? '_Sick, sinful woman: needs a man to teach her her rightful place.'_

_ “Disgusting men, if you can even call them that,” she would sneer, her sweat-stained upper lip curling up, baring her yellowing teeth. “Look, Eddie, now they’re running through the streets dressed in leather and latex like the devil himself. You know, that’s why God cursed them with the AIDS. It’s what they deserve for being so sinful, those queers. Don’t they realize they’re being smited? For laughing in the face of God? Eddie, don’t you understand? AIDS will sweep through them like holy water and extinguish them from the face of this beautiful Earth. Then we will be safe from their tainted blood, and the world will be clean of their sin. Are you hearing me, Eddie?”_

_ Eddie would always nod along._ Eddie was nodding now.

_“You hear me, Eddie, don’t you ever go near one of them. No matter what little tricks they try to play on you. You must remain pure, Eddie. Avoid them like the plague they are. They can poison you, sweetheart. Now come here and give momma a kiss.”_

_“Yes, momma,”_ Eddie would say. But his lower lip would quiver, beyond his control, burying the depths of his eternal truth.

When his mother died a year and a half ago, he thought he could finally shed that lasting control she had over his mind. He had hoped that her voice in his head, screaming and snarling at any gay thought he had would shush. Instead, she got clearer, her understanding of him deeper. When her vocal cords rotted to the earth, her voice found a new home in Eddie’s mind.

Eddie was an abomination. The Devil himself had cursed him and when the world ended tonight, he would accept his place in Hell.

Tears pricked at his eyes for what would be only the first time that day. Hot shivers wrecked his body, as he heard a voice that wasn’t his own in his head, urging him to kickstart the process. But he knew he shouldn’t. He didn’t need to descend lower on God’s shit-list.

With all of that running through his heart, going to Richie’s party tonight seemed like the worst hassle he could possibly imagine. But Ben, sweet and kind and friendly Ben, deserved a happy final night. He deserved to meet this girl and kiss her when the clock hit zero. Eddie could soldier on and go, make his rounds and say his hello’s, before stepping out quietly, hours before the end, and returning to his apartment. He could then tuck himself up into bed, with a capful of Nyquil and sleep soundly. He would fall asleep and allow the world to engulf him, and burn away his sinful, infected body.

But first, he had to get dressed for this fucking party.

When he stood up, a wave of dizziness from the Xanax still coursing through his veins nearly knocked him on his ass. He coughed, steadied himself on the corner of his bed, and trudged his way into his closet, where he might as well hide forever. He threw on a white shirt and some black pants, called it good, before shoving himself into a sweater as well. As soon as he headed out the door, he nearly body-checked Ben, who had been standing precariously close to Eddie’s door. Ben was pacing, and adjusting his outfit as he went, fiddling with his polo, then pulling at his jeans, which were still much too loose on him following his steady weight loss since college.

His head shot up to Eddie, and he squeeked, “If we go now, are we too early? Or would it be right? Or would we be too late? What does fashionably late even mean?”

“Does it matter?” Eddie asked, before adding, “It’s just a Richie party. Everyone there will be high on marijuana anyways.”

Ben laughed, a chirpy panicked laugh, but his shoulders loosened a bit anyways.

“Ben, are you nervous about this girl?” Eddie asked, his end-of-the-world-lack-of-patience preventing him from sidestepping the issue with grace.

“Is it that obvious, Eddie?” Ben asked with a slight smile.

Eddie returned the smile, “A bit.”

Blush ran up Ben’s angular cheekbones, and his otherwise masculine face softened with the boyish fear of unknown beautiful women. It was cute. Eddie knew Ben was handsome. At times, he even found himself dreading that he might be attracted to Ben. His face would catch in the light, or his laugh, so deep, like boulders rubbing together, would send tingles down Eddie’s neck. But then the moment would pass, usually heralded out by Eddie’s mother’s voice, reverberating in the dark chambers of his mind. But, when the voice was absent, shooed away by just enough Gin and Tonics, and the thought of Ben took more permanent residence in his mind, and Eddie had a chance to examine it in the light, he could pretty clearly see that what he felt toward Ben was just a strong and unwavering affection and not in any way true attraction. Ben was just a friend, a cute one who might have been nice to look at when Eddie was a little tipsy, but only a friend.

But that comforting and simple relationship… _well it didn’t apply as easily to_…

_(“STAY AWAY FROM THOSE QUEERS, EDDIE”)_

Eddie slammed the thought shut.

“Ben, you really don’t have to worry. If we know Richie, and we unfortunately have for six years now, your blind date might just be one of those blow-up sex dolls,” Eddie said.

Ben chuckled, as the thought drifted lazily across his mind. “You’re probably right, Eddie.”

“I’m always right, Ben! Come on, let’s get this nightmare over with,” Eddie said as he walked to get his coat and they descended into the dark, cold night.

The walk there was mostly uneventful, save for Eddie’s frequent comments about the trashed streets and the danger of illness brought by rats or drug-needles, common sights for New Yorkers. Eddie grew up far away from the city, in a small town in Pennsylvania, where he was able to avoid most of the nasty side-effects of city-life. Richie, however, had grown up right smack in the middle of the city, and he used that to his advantage when he wanted to make fun of Eddie for his “small-town ways” or harsh on him for not being able to handle the life of _‘a true New Yahkah.” _

Richie’s apartment was only a few blocks away from Eddie’s, a curious coincidence when you consider how quickly he picked it out, only a few short weeks after Eddie signed his own lease. He lived alone and his apartment was unreasonably big, in Eddie’s opinion. This, and his affinity for outlandishly expensive parties, where he insisted on supplying the booze, were indicators of just how successful he was at his job at the radio station. His stupid jokes and voices that annoyed Eddie to no end were the goddamn lifeline of entertainment for the rest of the city. Sometimes, Eddie wanted to take an air horn to the sky and scream, “Really, New York? Richie Kennedy? The man of a thousand and one obnoxious quirks?!”

Other times, he wanted to cry he was so proud of his idiot friend.

Sometimes, he wondered how else Richie spent his money. They would go out to bars, and Richie would buy Eddie enough drinks that Eddie seemed to never take out his own wallet. Eddie was sure that when he wasn’t there, Richie was doing the same for all the beautiful women he could find. He could just imagine him picking up some girl, doing yet another voice for her, revealing that he really was _that_ Richie Kennedy from 101.1, and bringing her back to his place where her eyes would widen when she saw the view, before he would lean down, caress her face, close his eyes…

Eddie shook his head, waking himself from this odd daydream that plagued him every now and then. He zoned back into the world, catching only fragments of Ben chattering about the building he was working on now, the one that was only a few streets from here.

“The structure is there, sure, but the foreman- he said we had to wait before installing the electricity, that’s the next step, cause of this cold front. He’s always got a knack for knowing this kind of stuff though, and he swears we’re getting snow. Don’t know where he gets it, especially with the news saying we won’t. And now production is all halted,” Ben explained, his eyes focusing lazily in front of him. Eddie noticed how often Ben would get that look on his face when he talked about his work. He would be so lost in his ideas, Eddie wondered if one day he would turn inward for good, lost to the world, dreaming of math equations and support beams.

Reaching the building, Eddie could already hear the muffled sounds of Britney Spears floating toward him, beckoning him to let loose, relax, get drunk like everyone else. He clenched his teeth.

“Full swing, yeah?” Ben asked, also awoken from his daydream.

“Leave it to Beaver,” Eddie said before he trekked up the stairs, a nervous flurry of excitement and dread battling for dominance in his stomach.

They climbed and circled until they reached Apartment 27. Eddie’s knuckles barely hit the door before it flew open in a whirlwind of excitement and a humid heat floated toward him, smelling of beer, and, _of course,_ marijuana.

Richie’s face was a storm of excitement when his eyes landed on Eddie, and his arm shot up, pulled by the uncontrollable force that seemed to guide his every move as he grabbed Eddie’s cheek. “My dahlin’ husband Eds, back from the war, ready to be a daddy,” drawled Richie in a voice he had named Antoinette Finch, the southern belle. It was one of Eddie’s least favorite accents.

“Stop, Richie, you know I-” Eddie said before a roaring scream erupted from the kitchen.

His face drained of color and his heart wrenched, instantly panicked. _Oh God, so soon?_

But then laughter rang out. Just a joke. Not there yet. But it’s coming.

Eddie grabbed his inhaler from the pocket of his pants and instantly took a hit of it. The air was cold and soothing. His mind settled.

“Well come in from the cold,” Richie said as he ushered them in, his hands grasped firmly on their shoulders.

Eddie blushed immediately, feeling like a child being dragged around by an older sibling. Once they were inside and the door was shut behind them, Richie’s arm lingered on his shoulders, though his other arm had fallen from Ben’s. Eddie’s blush grew deeper.

_(Too intimate)_

Eddie detached himself.

In the briefest of seconds, where Eddie only barely registered it, Richie pouted, as he used his newly freed hand to pick up the styrofoam cup that had been stationed on the small table next to the front door. But then, Richie looked up and his eyes sparkled as he spotted someone from the other side of the room. He grinned, waved, then quickly turned back to Eddie and Ben.

“Hold this for me, love. Or, drink it!” Richie said before bounding off to the person he had seen, a small brunette woman, with legs for days, who was currently laughing, her head tilted back, and her hair cascading in waves around her.

Oh. Richie’s date.

Eddie was suddenly very reminded of how little he wanted to be there. He examined the styrofoam cup in his hand, and swirled the dark liquid around. It smelled like chocolate, peppermint, and enough vodka to get Eddie’s head spinning from just a sip. No thanks.

“Well, do you know anybody here?” Ben asked as he stole tiny glances around the room.

Eddie sighed and looked up. Various people were scattered about the party, clumping in masses, drinking and smoking. They all looked like classic yuppy New Yorkers, maybe with a bit of an edge. Seemed like the Entertainment scene that Richie had been frequenting so much recently. Everyone looked _snazzy,_ as Eddie’s mother would have said, dressed in sequins and metallics and satins.

String lights illuminated the room, and everyone looked angelic and soft. It really was a pretty sight. The gentle beauty contrasted pretty badly with the unmistakable drunkenness of the crowd, though, who would sway to the music, bop around, and laugh, bumping into each other, touching so easily. Some even had the unmistakable red-rimmed eyes that Eddie knew came with smoking marijuana.

_The Devil’s Lettuce_ as Eddie’s mother would call it. Eddie buckled down a small shudder.

“No, not one person,” Eddie responded finally.

Ben teetered on his feet, before he suddenly grabbed Eddie’s free forearm and directed them to the bar. Something to do at least, now that Richie, the only person they knew here, had more pressing matters, than spending time with the two who he had _forced_ to come anyways. Eddie felt a wave of burning heat in his stomach. He was pissed off.

Ben’s hand was still on Eddie’s forearm when they reached the bar, and Eddie wondered if Ben was feeling the same fear he had of losing the other in the party and being swallowed up by the uppity New Yorkers, forced to drown in their own loneliness. Eddie was kind of grateful that Ben was holding him so closely. At least he wasn’t the only uncomfortable one.

At the bar, a young woman was standing alone, with blonde hair permed up high in some choppy glittery haircut, that Eddie was sure was based off of Baby Spice. She turned to them, her eyes drifting toward Ben’s lingering hand on Eddie’s forearm.

“Hi!” she smiled, a sickly sweet grin plastered on her face. “Are you two…?” she asked with a giggle and delighted eyes.

“What?” Ben asked, but Eddie knew. He knew down to his damned to hell core.

“I love Ellen!” she chirped, and sipped her drink, her sticky lipgloss staining the edge of the cup.

“No!” Eddie said, or more so shouted. He shook off Ben’s hand, and Ben himself looked thoroughly confused and worried.

The woman’s eyes widened, and she looked around the party nervously, hoping that nobody had heard Eddie’s sudden outburst. “Jeez Louise,” she muttered before walking off, teetering on her strappy heels.

The layers of the situation finally dawned on Ben and he looked at Eddie with an easy, amused grin. “Oh boy, where’d she get that idea?” Ben asked, unaffected in a way that Eddie couldn’t understand.

Eddie felt the heat of his blush teaming at his back, up his neck, and circling around his ears like ivy. His secret was absolutely reeking off him, clearly. He had to escape from this party, from these lights, from the staring and the glitter, and recede to the cool darkness of his own apartment.

“Come on, Ben, let’s just get-”

“My boys!” Richie shouted from behind them. His arms were now tucked over two women, the small brunette from earlier, and another, one with beautiful, flaming red hair, and eyes that pulled you in just to spit you back out.

“Eddie meet Greta, Ben meet Beverly,” Richie said, patting the top of the women’s heads. He dropped his arms and circled behind Eddie and Ben, “you see, girls, this here is Eddie, the cutest little spaghetti man the world ever did offer,” he said, as his fingers drew lazy circles around Eddie’s cheeks. _Bastard._

“And this tall glass of water is Ben,” Richie said as he mock-fanned his face.

He circled back to Eddie, leaned down and whispered in his ear, “thanks for holding my drink, cutie,” before he delicately took the cup that Eddie had still been holding from his hand. Eddie was fuming, so angry he was sure steam would rocket out of his ears at any second.

“I’ll let you four get acquainted,” Richie finished before he was off again, enveloped by the party.

“Hi!” chirped Greta, with a smile so wide, Eddie could almost see her secrets. He smiled back, blank, and emotionless, and checked his watch. 9:30. Two and a half hours to go.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, and Greta beamed at him again. Instead, he turned to Ben, hoping to persuade his friend to leave again.

One look at Ben though, and he knew all hope was lost. Ben’s face was soft, his eyes drowning, and a rosy red blossomed across his sharp cheekbones. Eddie lolled his head toward Beverly. Her face matched. Damn.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Beverly,” Ben said. He pulled himself from his trance and added, “and you as well, Greta.”

“Pleased to meet you as well, Ben,” Beverly responded, before adding, “and Eddie.” She tucked some of her red hair behind her eyes and Eddie swore he could _hear_ Ben’s heart skip a beat.

Greta turned to him and beamed that smile at him again. _Sorry, Grets, I’ve got the Devil’s curse. I play for the other team, the one from hell._

He _had_ to leave. Not only had he been dragged here, but now he was damn near trapped. Richie had set him up with someone, something would never allow if he knew it was happening. To top it all off, it was a girl! It’s not like Richie knew his dirty secret, but, still. Eddie wanted, he _needed_ to go.

But then he saw Ben’s face again, which was so damn happy for once, and it wasn’t about his work this time. Eddie had never seen Ben look more complete than he did in that moment, not even when he scored his job that he had been working toward for months. Eddie supposed he could stick around for a bit. He was going to die tonight anyways, it’s not like he had some appointment to catch.

“Would either of you like a drink?” Ben asked. The gentleman. Straight. Normal.

“Sure,” Beverly said. Greta smiled.

“What’s your poison?” Ben asked.

“Any beer. Gotta catch up with the rest of the yuppies here,” Beverly giggled. Shit, maybe Eddie liked her too.

“Screwdriver?” Greta said, butting herself into the conversation that Eddie felt guilty he had been holding her out of. Eddie groaned in his head. Time to play pretend. Maybe it will stick this time.

He turned around and grabbed for the sticky handle of vodka, pouring it into one of the empty styrofoam cups, as Ben searched for an unopened beer. He topped it off with some orange juice, that he noticed was _not_ refrigerated and also just as sticky. Gross.

He handed the concoction to her and she smiled again. He willed every ounce of him to match her smile, to feel gleeful, but instead, his hands dug into his pockets for his hand-sanitizer, and he occupied himself with that instead.

Greta’s smile faltered. His secret must be so clear. So written on himself. In furious red lines screaming, _“gay, gay, gay, gay, gay.”_

“So where are you two from?” Ben asked, though his eyes remained glued solely to Beverly.

“We’re both from North Carolina. We were roommates back in college,” Greta answered. Eddie wondered if she wanted to force through the awkward air that he was causing, or if she was just oblivious. He didn’t really care either way.

Eddie wanted to try harder. He was preoccupied though. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find it in him to play along with this stupid conversation as the walls closed in on him. All he could find in himself was his own sin. His disgusting nature. The black mold that coated his insides and rotted him to his core.

And then, as par for Eddie’s course, he began to hyperventilate. He coughed, an attempt to hide it, before reaching for his inhaler and pumping. It was time to go.

“Would you please excuse me?” Eddie said, ducking away before anyone could answer. He could feel Ben’s eyes boring into his back, his eyebrows probably furrowed with worry. But he didn’t care. Not now. Ben would be happy for the rest of the night, he knew that. He could allow himself to duck away.

If Eddie had only two hours left in this miserable life, he wasn’t going to spend it listening to Ben and Beverly flirt while he failed to flirt back with some girl he couldn’t be attracted to no matter how much he tried. Instead, he was going to go home, knock himself out, and wait for death to drag away his miserable soul. He realized with a bitter sadness that he may never again see Ben… or Richie.

That didn’t stop his legs from moving though, and he was soon at the door, just a moment away from departing from this party, and walking home for the last time. But the thought rang through his mind again and his head was propelled backward, as if it were puppetted. His eyes landed on Ben, who was again entranced by Beverly, save for the few glances he was giving around the room, probably looking for Eddie. When Ben’s eyes would land back on Beverly, though, he looked truly happy. Eddie smiled. At least his final moments would be warm.

  
Then Eddie’s own eyes, continued to search for something he could barely grasp at, until they landed on their target.

Richie was standing across the room, surrounded by laughing people, but he was staring directly at Eddie. His mouth was slightly open, his lips were red and wet, and his eyebrows were furrowed. Eddie’s breath caught in his throat, but he didn't reach for his inhaler. They stared at each other, saying nothing and everything. The lights that were strung up around the apartment cast a white glow on Richie’s features, and Eddie was reminded of how beautiful his friend truly was. Eddie felt paralyzed under his eyes, but he managed to will him arm to wave, and offer up a small goodbye to his best friend. Tears almost broke in his eyes, but then he was startled because Richie was propelling his lanky body through the crowd, shoving people aside, and abandoning the group he had been talking to, without as much as a “hold my drink.”

He reached Eddie, nearly breathless, but smiling. “Leaving so soon?” he said, his words a sad melody.

“Richie, I’m sorry. I just want to go home and be asleep for…”

“For what, Eds?” Richie asked, but his eyes said he already knew.

“When it hits midnight,” Eddie said, a half-truth, like the many that built his life.

“When the world ends?”

Eddie closed his eyes, “Yes Richie, when the fucking world ends, you fucker.”

“Oh darling,” Richie sighed, and reached to Eddie’s cheek.

Eddie shrugged off his hand and Richie recoiled. “Whatever, man. I’m out of here.” Eddie turned around and reached for the doorknob.

“Fine,” Richie said, as he reached around Eddie for his jacket that was hanging by a hook next to the door. The motion brought him leaning in toward Eddie, close enough that Eddie could feel his breath on his ear, and could just barely smell the peppermint and vodka that Richie had been drinking all night. Eddie turned around, and Richie was close, too close.

“I’m coming with you,” Richie said, his words barely a whisper, and his eyes locked on Eddie’s. “If the world is really going down then there’s nowhere I’d rather be than watching it with you.”

“Richie,” Eddie began to protest, a formality as simple as a knee jerk reaction he couldn’t stop. But Richie was so close that the rest of Eddie’s words died in his throat.

“No way around it, Eddie my love. I’m with you to the end of the line,” Richie said with a smile pulling at those red lips that lingered in the back of Eddie’s mind.

“Fine,” Eddie said, knowing he couldn’t get Richie to change his mind, even if he wanted it.

Richie beamed, and turned the door knob behind Eddie, opening the door, and cold air enveloped the both of them. Tingles danced across Eddie’s skin. _From the cold air, right?_

“What about your party?” Eddie asked, even as they both crossed the threshold into the hallway.

“Party’s nothing without ya,” Richie said, still smiling, still honest.

Eddie smiled without thinking and turned to walk with him into the night.

“So, what exactly do you want to do with your last hours of life? Raid a supermarket? Stock up? Do crack? Get laid?” Richie asked, bouncing through the hallway.

“Listen, fuckwad, if you’re going to make fun of me the whole time then you might as well go back to your stupid party.”

“I’m not! I’m just- uh. Here. Seriously, what do you want to do?” Richie asked, as they reached the door to the building, and pushed it ahead of Eddie, allowing him to go first.

“I don’t know. My plans were to just go home, knock out on Xanax, and die in my sleep,” Eddie said, as he stepped onto the stoop in front of the building and stood, staring at Richie. It was fucking cold, and Eddie just wanted to curl up in bed.

“I mean, not that I would be opposed to cuddling you in your bed all night, but I’m surprised that you don’t want to watch as everything comes to a fiery end.”

“Stop flirting with me dickwad, you’re not funny. And I’d rather just die in peace,” Eddie sighed. He wanted to change the subject. It felt too real.

“You don’t wanna stock up? Try to book it to West Virginia, where I’m sure there are no crashing planes to worry about,” Richie asked.

Eddie sighed, again, “No point. We’re all doomed.”

“That’s dark, kid,” Richie said. “Anyways, as I’m sure you know, it’s all a simulation. Maybe the world ending is just the simulation finally breaking down.”

“Yeah, sure,” Eddie said, as his mind wandered away, to thoughts of fire. Fire, blood, cacophony. All coming at him, taking him with them. Down to hell. Maybe he’d see his mom there.

“Well, if you don’t know what you wanna do at your zero-hour, I know what I want,” Richie said, mischief rolling up his face like suds.

“What, my mother?” Eddie asked with an eye-roll.

“Oh, Spaghetti’s got jokes! Nah, I already did that this morning. I don’t have her stamina to go again. But, you see my boy, all I want is a slice of the best food on earth. New York’s own ambrosia. Let’s get some motherfucking pizza.”

Eddie giggled. Good cheer in their final hours. It was sweet. Eddie nodded, and said, “Shut the fuck up about my mother before I kill you, Trashmouth.”

“Trashmouth?” Richie asked.

“Yeah- just thought of it. Don’t know where it came from,” Eddie said, suddenly confused. _Where did that come from?_ But the train that thought came in on was long gone.

“Alright, I don’t mind it. Let’s get some pizza,” Richie giggled. Then with a rush, he grabbed Eddie’s hand and started running down the street, dragging Eddie behind him. “Come on, I know a place!” he shouted to the night sky.

Eddie could barely keep up with his friend’s long strides as they bounded down the sidewalk. The city flew by them in a blur and the cold air tickled at Eddie’s nose, but he felt warm. Cheering and shouting could be heard throughout the entire city, echoes of excitement, screaming full of life and happiness. Richie was laughing, as he weaved them through people and trash cans, subway meters and newspaper stands. The city was a maze of interruptions, but Richie was pulling them through. The entire time, his hand was gripped on Eddie’s, and Eddie couldn’t help but notice how soft and warm it was. It was a touch of contact, but it spread throughout his entire body and Eddie forgot how cold he was. _Maybe…_

They skidded to a sudden stop in front of a bustling pizza place.

“Welcome to the kingdom, Sir Spaghetti,” Richie said in an English accent, as he gazed upwards, the building’s neon light reflecting off his glasses, and off the cheap sunglasses that were shaped like the year “2000” that were nestled on top of his curly black hair. A smiled tingled at his lips and when he turned to Eddie, who was already breathless, he felt his heart skip.

Watching him, Eddie felt warm. It was the kind of warm he thought wasn’t real. Magic of the silver screen. The shit they sell you in advertisements. What Disneyland is all about. How he felt when he was home alone at night and staring out of his window at the twinkling lights of the city. Like there was so much out there and the world wouldn’t stop for him, and it was beautiful because all he had to do was leap right into it, whenever he wanted, whenever he was ready. And it would take him with it on a ride that never stopped and he could close his eyes and feel the wind in his hair and he would be flying above the entire city but it would be his and he would be absorbed into it.

Richie was still holding his hand.

Then Eddie noticed all the people around them.

Then the heat crawled up his body. Hotter than warm. Stuffy and constricting, like a sweater that’s too tight made of wool, tickling at his body. The heat of a spotlight when you don’t know your lines. The heat of summer in the city when the air conditioning is busted and you’re sweating through your shirt, and your skin is sticky and you can’t breathe. The heat of being caught in a lie. The heat of an imperfect crime and the heat of being watched, laughed at, deep in your stomach making you want to crawl down into a cool dark grave to escape it all. The heat of the fire that would consume the earth tonight.

Richie let go of Eddie’s hand.

The emptiness was worse.

“You good, home skillet?” Richie asked, the smile falling from his face, and concern settling in, and Eddie was ripped from his thoughts.

Eddie grimaced forth a smile back. “Let’s just get on with this. I have a bottle of Xanax calling my name.”

“Yeah? Like your MILF was calling my name last night?”

“MILF? What the fuck is a MILF?”

“You haven’t seen American Pie?” Richie asked, his hand shooting up to his mouth.

“Ew, as if,” Eddie replied.

“Mom I’d like to fuck!” Richie screamed, before he pulled at Eddie’s hand again and dragged them into the pizza place.

They had to fight through customers but Richie was an expert, and somehow knew the owners, and before he could blink, they were sitting on a nearby bench, digging into their last meals.

Eddie had to admit that the pizza was good, even by New York’ standards. Normally, Eddie wouldn’t really go for slimy New York pizza made by some corner store with no regards to health and food inspection, but if he was dying anyway, he might as well try something new. He didn’t mind it. They were both so entranced by their food that they weren’t even talking, just sitting and watching as partygoers walked by, laughing, hollering, and smelling more and more like the inside of a liquor store.

“I told you! Best pizza in the city,” Richie spoke with his mouth full. He had already devoured two slices and was working on his third.

“It’s good, Rich,” Eddie said. He looked up and watched as a particularly drunk man stumbled along in front of them.

The man stopped right in front of them and beamed, and Eddie noticed with disgust that he had spit drooling from the corner of his mouth. “Get fuckin’ lucky tonight kids,” he gurgled, before he stumbled on.

“Oh, I’m planning on getting lucky,” Richie giggled and winked at Eddie.

Eddie rolled his eyes. He still wasn’t used to those kinds of New Yorkers. “At least people are having fun with their final night on Earth,” Eddie said.

“Eddie, I mean this with sincerity; the world isn’t gonna end,” Richie said, turning to Eddie, and abandoning the food he had been shovelling into his mouth.

“How can you be so sure, fucker?” Eddie asked, defensive of his truth. He knew it was going to happen. _Fuck,_ he basically needed it to happen at this point.

“Cause how could the world end and let something as perfect as you go with it?” Richie giggled.

Eddie stayed stone-cold. He didn’t need this right now. “Stop it! Richie, the world is ending, and you’re not even gonna know it till a plane lands right on you.”

Richie sighed, but his smile stayed fixed. “How do I have to prove it to you?”

“You can’t prove that the world isn’t gonna end. Especially cause it is. Just fucking wait, what,” Eddie checked his watch, “one more hour? Then we’ll know.”

Richie cocked his eyebrow. “Alright one more hour and we’ll know. Well, now that we’ve feasted, we must pick our final resting place. Where do you want to die?” Richie asked, as he leaped from his place on the bench.

_ (in your arms)_

_What? No. Bad. Wrong. Evil. Disgusting._

“At home, in bed. Asleep,” Eddie emphasized. Firmly. Clearly. That was the plan. That’s where he deserved to be.

“Your shithole apartment? Eddie, please,” Richie said. “You know, I actually had a contingency plan for this very situation. Take my hand and I’ll lead you away, Neo.”

“Neo?”

“Yeah! Or take the blue pill and go home. It’s your choice. Actually, fuck that, I’m not giving you a choice.”

They were off again, Richie’s hand tight on Eddie’s and they were flying through the freezing cold city. They winded through the streets, and the blocks started to look less and less familiar, with fewer and fewer people. It became darker, and quieter, less streetlights, more trees. The city itself seemed to fade away.

Finally, Richie’s feet stopped slapping the pavement. Richie was looking up again, his cheeks red, and with panting breath. There were no lights to set him glowing like before, and Eddie had to fight to still make out his features in the dark night. Eddie looked up, at their final destination. It was a building, sure, but only technically. It was more like the skeletal beginnings of a massive beast. It was just the bones, a mid-construction apartment building, so massive and empty, that Eddie could hear the wind whistling through the structure, like the cry of a thousand ghosts.

“Um, Richie? What the fuck?”

“Look!” Richie said, as he hopped the tiny fence that surrounded the structure, and was clearly warning them to keep out. He clambered onto a metal platform that stood just barely off to the side of the building, and Eddie realized with queasy horror, that it was the kind of platform that workmen used as an elevator. They were going up.

“Hell no,” Eddie said.

“Come on! Ben gave me the password to this thing,” Richie said as he bounced around the platform, looking for a control panel. “It’s the building his team has been working on. It’s safe, he promised. Just trust me."

“Richie, do you even realize how many accidents are caused-”

“I’m gonna stop you right there, boy-o. Do you realize that the world is gonna end in like 45 minutes and if we die on this, that’s only gonna be like a 45 minute difference in our life-spans, so you might as well just listen to me? Come on, the view is incredible. I bring your mom-”

“Fine! Jesus,” Eddie said. Richie’s words crashed through his ears and the nervous shock of the finality of it all hit him like a wave. He lugged himself up over the fence and climbed onto the platform, with much less enthusiasm that Richie had, but he made it over anyway. He stood next to Richie, and rolled his eyes pointedly at him. “Happy?”

Richie bent down and engulfed him in a massive hug. It shocked the air out of Eddie. Richie was always touchy, they had hugged before, but with the cold around them, the night sky cloudy and light, their impending doom, and Richie still not letting him go, Eddie could barely breathe.

“You won’t regret this,” Richie whispered, and Eddie wondered if he was even supposed to hear him, before Richie suddenly pulled himself away. Eddie wanted to scream for him to come back. But then Richie’s long fingers were hammering at the control panel he had finally found.

The building was falling down in front of them. No, they were flying up, bounding toward the night sky with unbelievable speed. Eddie’s knees nearly buckled from under him. He felt cold under his jacket and wondered if he had been doused with ice water at some point. The stars felt too close. Then his head was whipping around as he tried to get his bearings, but as swiftly as they had begun, they came to a screeching stop.

“Wow, Ben did not mention that the ride up would make me shit my pants,” Richie laughed, but Eddie could barely hear him. They had reached the highest floor, and Eddie looked around them and… fuck.

The city shimmered in front of him. Windows were stardust of light. Gentle fog danced around the buildings, which stood like giants, unfathomable beasts, sturdy and permanent. Wind tickled through his hair and he wanted to jump, to leap, to take off and fly through it all, absorb as much as he could. He wanted to live.

“View’s pretty great, yeah?” Richie said, as he walked over to the building and climbed off the platform, sitting down directly on the concrete and looking ahead of him, taking in every single aspect of the view.

“Yeah,” was all Eddie could muster, before he followed suit, sinking to a seat next to Richie.

“When Ben told me about this place, he said I could go here if I wanted to show off to a date,” Richie explained.

For a moment, the view seemed less impressive.

“Oh god, please don’t tell me you fucked some girl up here and I’m sitting right where it happened,” Eddie said, a funny feeling taking root in his stomach.

“Not a girl, Eddie,” Richie said, a smile blossoming on his face.

“Wha-”

“Your mother is a _woman_!” Richie shouted.

“Thank god the world is ending and I never have to hear one of those shitty jokes again,” Eddie said, feeling as though some small creature of hope he couldn’t identify was killed. He would probably miss the jokes anyway. It felt like they were a necessity to their friendship at this point. His mind flashed back to a year and a half ago when his mother died, and Richie’s “your mom” jokes had stopped. It made sense why Richie stopped making those jokes, but it left Eddie queasy, like the world wasn’t right. Then one night, nearly three months after her death, when they had been playing video games in Richie’s apartment, and the night hours turned into morning hours, Richie, spurred by his own exhaustion, made a joke about Eddie’s now very dead mother. He immediately gasped, and began apologizing, stammering out words faster than Eddie could keep up, looking like he was going to cry himself. But instead of crying or shouting or storming out, Eddie began laughing. Laughing harder than he had in a really long time. He was holding his sides from laughing so hard that could barely breathe. Then Richie started laughing too, probably out of relief. After that, the jokes were back on, and Eddie was grateful. It made him feel more normal. It made his and Richie’s relationship feel right again.

“So Eddie,” Richie said, and Eddie was pulled out of his own mind yet again. “Now that we’re alone, please explain to me how you’re _so_ sure we’re heading for fiery absolution?”

“Well…” Eddie didn’t know where to start, if he even should. He sighed, and firmed himself before continuing, “I mean, it started last year. Those stories about the Y2K bug I was reading in The Times. There were all these editorials about this massive issue coming up in computers and it felt like more than a coincidence that this would coincide right as we are becoming more reliant than ever on computers and technology. It’s just this perfect storm of shit, and well…” Eddie looked up, expecting Richie to be holding back a laugh or rolling his eyes. But he wasn’t. He was listening, fully focused.

“I saw this guy,” Eddie continued, “in Times Square. Ya know, I try not to go there, but there was construction on my route to my doctor, and I thought it would save time, or whatever. But he had this sign and it said something like, ‘fags are bringing us to the end of times’ and it was exactly like my mother would say before she died. And with AIDS in this mix too, it just all seems like it’s coming together and the world will end and we’ll deserve it, and this is what was meant to happen, and we’re all gonna die-” Eddie began to hyperventilate again. He reached for his inhaler and breathed it in, while Richie sat and watched him, with a patience Eddie rarely saw from him. He calmed.

“I forgot how much your mom hated gay people,” Richie said, but his eyes drifted away. _Did he forget?_

“Yeah, she told me all the time about how they were a curse on this planet and AIDS was giving to them what they had coming.”

“God, your mom was a bitch!” Richie coughed up before flinching and looking at Eddie with regret.

Eddie laughed, forgiving him. “Yeah, some of her views were harsh. But I don’t blame her. I mean, she was going off the bible, and well… I don’t know.”

“Eddie, do you actually think the world is ending because of the gays?” Richie asked.

“I guess. I don’t know. Maybe it’s because of technology and how far we’ve gone from nature or something,” Eddie croaked. He really wasn’t sure of this point. His mother _said_ that the gays were causing the end of the world. And he hated himself for it. But he never felt that hatred bloom outwards like hers did.

“Seriously, do you think gay people are evil?” Richie asked, his tone serious and sad in a way Eddie had never heard from him before.

“N-No, I mean. I don’t know,” Eddie stuttered. He was evil, and he was afraid that any movement, any muscle twitch might reveal it. He might reveal he was part of the immoral poison that would consume the Earth.

“But do you hate gay people?” Richie asked, firmly.

“No,” Eddie answered, and he realized that was the truth. He hated himself, but he never hated other gay people. He always felt sad for them when his mother would berate them. It wasn’t their fault.

“Eddie…” Richie said, and his voice was shaking. He turned from him and looked toward the skyline, and he grasped his hands together. Eddie noticed it was because they were shaking. “The world isn’t gonna end because of the gays. Eddie…” he took a deep, hitching breath. “I’m gay.”

Eddie’s ears exploded and the world around them went silent.

“Wh-” Eddie choked. He occupied his mouth with his inhaler, again.

“Yeah. I figured it out back in college. Haven’t told a lot of people yet. Don’t really know what to do with it either, I mean, did you see what they did to Ellen when she told everyone?” Richie said with a giggle. He was still avoiding Eddie’s eyes. “Don’t know what would happen to my show if I came out. But yeah. Big old queer over here.”

Eddie nodded. This was too much. Now they were both here, gay, asking to be smited down. He was terrified, but… _of what?_

“Do you think I’m bringing on the end of the world, Eds?” Richie said, and he suddenly drew his eyes back to Eddie’s. They were so sad, and lonely, and his voice was so much smaller than it had ever been before.

_Fuck_, Eddie thought. No.

“No Richie,” Eddie said. Richie had always been there for him, at every moment that Eddie had ever needed him. He let him study in his dorm when Eddie’s roommate was using their room for a rotating door of one night stands. He held Eddie’s hands when they would shake ferociously because he was so panicked about an upcoming test. He would invite him over for holidays when Eddie couldn’t bear to go home. He went with him to his mom’s funeral. And now, he was up here, in a cold, abandoned building, far away from his warm apartment, miles from his own party, just to keep Eddie company while they waited for the world to end.

“No, Richie. You’re good,” Eddie said, and he meant every bit of it.

Richie’s face flooded with relief and his eyes sparkled with tears that didn’t need to fall and Eddie wanted to just reach up and grab them and hold him. But instead he sat on his hands and forced a deep breath.

“Then the world isn’t ending because I’d rather kiss Joey than Rachel,” Richie giggled and Eddie laughed himself. _Was it really that simple?_

Richie then cocked his head, “Well, of course, with your mom being the excep-”

In a rush of movement, Eddie tackled Richie and pinned him to the cold floor. He looked Richie in the eyes, who seemed absolutely frozen by the movement and said, “If the last thing I hear before I die is a fucking ‘your mom’ joke I swear I will hunt you down in Hell and kill you again.”

Eddie smiled but Richie seemed too frozen to meet it, so he detached himself from him, happy to have made his statement. When Richie pulled himself up from the ground, Eddie wondered if he was really cold, because his cheeks were burning red.

“Message received, cutie,” Richie barked out, but kept his eyes far from Eddie’s gaze. “So do you still think the world is ending?” Richie asked.

“Yes. Even… even if it’s for a different reason,” Eddie sighed. He felt scattered. Maybe being gay wasn’t the end. Richie was gay. And Richie was good. Eddie could never ever hate Richie, no matter how many stupid jokes he threw his way. If he couldn’t hate Richie for being gay, then why did he hate himself for it? Could he forgive himself? Did he even deserve the same benevolence?

“Richie, am I good?” Eddie asked.

Richie sighed, and turned to Eddie fully. “Oh, Eddie,” Richie laughed gently and Eddie’s cheeks burned. “You’re the best thing to happen to this planet.”

Eddie’s cheeks burned even brighter. Then his nose burned and he felt tears bubble up to his eyes. This was too much and it was all at once, and he had to run away from Richie so he couldn’t see him cry. He coughed.

“How long do we have?” Eddie asked.

Richie glanced at his watch. “About ten more minutes, my darling,” Richie said. “But, Eddie, the world isn’t going to end.”

Eddie sighed. It was too late for him to try and get his hopes up. He knew this was it. He needed this to happen, and he needed to accept it, to wash him of his evil...

But what if he wasn’t evil? What if his mother had been wrong like she was about so many things before? _What if love didn’t make him sick?_

“You know what my favorite New Years was?” Richie asked.

“What’s that?”

“It was when it was just us, and Mike, Bill, and Ben, and we all got absolutely hammered in Bill’s dorm. Remember? Bill put on like a hundred different sweaters for god knows what reason and started singing Britney Spears so fucking loud I was sure that he could be heard from New Jersey. Then Mike was tackling him and tickling him and we were all laughing and screaming at them like they were fucking wrestlers and this was wrestlemania.”

Eddie laughed, as the memory of Mike trying to grab Bill by the sweaters he was wearing and he kept slipping away and blowing raspberries back at Mike every time he got loose.

“Then that asshole R.A. came up and said we were being so loud it sounded like we were moving furniture. And Bill! The man! He just told the R.A. to go back to bed! And he was so commanding the R.A. just left! God, we were so lucky he didn’t write us up.”

“What would you have cared if he wrote us up? You got written up all the time,” Eddie said, laughing.

Richie laughed and threw his arm around Eddie’s shoulders. Eddie was warm again.

“You’re absolutely right, chappy,” Richied droned in an impression of Austin Powers, “I was jus’ keen on protecting you, dahhling!”

“God, Mike was so annoyed that we forced him to miss that Beta Zeta Phi party or whatever. He just kept whining about not getting a New Years kiss or something,” Eddie said.

“Oh yeah! Once the R.A. left, he just complained that he could be as loud as he wanted with a million different girls at that stupid party.” Suddenly, Richie was cracking up, “Oh god, Eddie, do you remember what happened after that?”

Eddie wrinkled his forehead and thought, but at that point in that night, the champagne he had been drinking had seriously blocked him from taking in much more information.

“No, I think I was too fucked up,” Eddie said, and Richie laughed, shaking his body as well as Eddie’s, who was still nestled tightly under his arm.

“Well, Bill got so fed up, bless his heart, that he jumped up, tackled Mike, and planted one right on him.”

“Oh, wait yeah!” Eddie said, as bits of the memory trickled back to him. “I thought Mike was gonna implode.”

“Oh please, he liked it,” Richie said, as he adjusted his glasses.

Eddie giggled, “Wait, is he…?”

“A friend of Dorothy’s like yours truly? Verdict is still out on that one,” Richie laughed, before removing his arm from Eddie, who was suddenly very cold again. But, instantly, as if Richie could read his mind, Richie’s hand was on his knee. Casual. Resting. Warm again.

“I don’t even get New Years Kisses. It always seems like some desperate show to swap saliva with strangers and get sick,” Eddie huffed.

“It’s all about the experience, Eddie! You start off the New Year-” Richie suddenly stopped, struck silent, for what Eddie guessed might have been the first time in his life. “Wait… Eddie. Have you never had a New Years Kiss?” Richie was deathly still, his fidgeting hands quiet. It was weird.

“Well,” Eddie sighed. No use in lying so close to death anyways. “No. I just think it’s-”

“Eddie! You need a New Years kiss!” Richie exclaimed, and he was a flurry of movement again.

“Dumbass, when am I gonna get that? The world is ending at midnight, so I can’t kiss anyone because I’ll be dead.”

“You’re right, tonight is your last chance,” Richie said. “You need to kiss someone tonight.”

“It’s not happening. There’s nobody around, Rich,” Eddie lied.

“Am I nobody?” Richie asked and Eddie felt the world get sucked out of his lungs because _of course_ Richie wasn’t nobody.

“Richie, what-”

“You can kiss me! I’ll be your New Year’s kiss,” Richie exclaimed.

“Richie, come on, stop joking around,” Eddie said, sure this was just another prank. A cruel one. Eddie’s heart was hammering in his chest and he wanted to remind it that this was just Richie flirting with him again as a joke, not realizing what it did to him.

“I’m not. You need a New Years kiss, and I want- and I need to be the one to do it, cause, well... since there’s nobody here,” Richie said, his words bouncing around, searching for footing.

“Stop fucking with me! New Years kisses are stupid and-”

Richie turned to him and grabbed his hands, like he had done so many times that night, but they held on so tight it almost hurt. He clenched his jaw and asked, “Can I be your New Years Kiss?” His heart was there, laid out for Eddie, and Eddie knew it was his to crush

_(or to hold)._

“But the world will end at midnight, so I can’t even kiss you then because we’ll be dead,” Eddie reasoned, his mind flipping and shivering.

Richie checked his watch. “We have two minutes until then,” he said and Eddie felt dizzy. “Two minutes to go, Eds. If we kissed now, it can still count. I’ll let that count as a New Years kiss. Fuck, we can kiss until the world goes down around us but I don’t want to die without kiss- Fuck! Eddie! You can’t die without a New Years Kiss!” Richie sounded so frantic, as usual, but this time there was another tone in there. It was hopeful and strained. It was fragile.

Eddie knew what he was going to say next, anyway. He knew, just like he knew a year ago that he was gay when he found out the world was ending. Just like he knew that Ben found his true love in Beverly only an hour ago. Just like he knew that the first thing he felt when his mom died wasn’t sadness, but relief. Just like he knew that Richie was good, even if he was gay. Fuck, he knew Richie was good _because_ he was gay. Because it meant what was about to happen, would happen. Even if he went to Hell, even if it condemned him, even if he was evil because of it.

He knew he wanted nothing more than to say yes.

“Yes,” Eddie said, and shot his eyes shut like he was following a script, before he ripped them back open because he didn’t want to miss a second of what was going to happen.

Richie's breath caught in his throat and he smiled so brightly, so deeply, and red tinged at his cheeks so beautifully, before he took another breath and was suddenly, so fervently serious. His eyes, which had been studying Eddie’s face, trying to read his mind before he could speak, suddenly fell to Eddie’s lips and bright, flashing excitement shot through Eddie’s entire body. Richie reached his hand up, slowly, painfully slowly, before he rested it on Eddie’s face, more delicately than Eddie had ever known Richie to be. He was soft, and patient.

Then Richie was tilting his head and black curls were cascading to the side and _oh god_ he was leaning in and coming closer and his lips we still _so red_ and his eyes were closing so Eddie’s did too.

Their lips met and Eddie was sure he was going to melt right through the floor because Richie was _kissing him_. It was soft, and gentle, and his mouth was closed, but Eddie could feel every single nerve in his body. He pressed in himself, and everything else in the world fell away, and Eddie wondered if the world ended or if it even could now.

Then Richie pulled away, patiently, and Eddie’s lips were so fucking cold.

Eddie’s eyes ripped open and he wanted to ask why the _fuck_ Richie had stopped.

“There, now you’ve had a New Years Kiss,” Richie said, but his voice was breathless, and his eyes were still watching Eddie’s lips. Eddie smiled, before leaning back in, with such a force that he even surprised himself, and Richie’s eyes shot open because this meant so much more than just Eddie saying yes to a stupid New Years kiss, and they crashed together and it wasn’t chaste anymore.

Because Eddie’s lips were open and this kiss was deepening and everything about it fit and Eddie wondered if they had kissed before this night because it was so familiar and suddenly the Beach Boys are singing in his mind _“When we can say goodnight and stay together”_ even though Eddie is sure he had never heard that song before. But Eddie can barely breathe because he’s on fire and he doesn’t pull away. His arms shoot up like they’ve done this over and over again and they wrap around Richie’s back and pull him in closer and Eddie’s sure he can hear Richie gasp against his mouth. But Richie’s tongue is gliding over his and Eddie wonders if he’s already dead and gone to heaven because Richie _tastes so good._

Eddie doesn’t even realize when the clock hits midnight. He doesn’t notice that the world continues turning and planes continue flying. He doesn’t notice the fireworks, or cheering, or that everyone keeps on going.

He doesn’t notice that he is still alive and finally living because he is lying against the cold hard cement but he’s warm because Richie is on top of him and running his fingers through his hair, and still kissing him like they’ve been kissing for years, for eternities.

When Eddie is sure he’ll never be able to breathe again, Richie pulls away and Eddie finally opens his eyes, even though all he wants to do is rip Richie back to him. Richie is grinning and his eyes are glazed over when he checks his watch and says, “it’s 12:03, Eds. Happy New Years, baby.”

Eddie shot up from the ground, as if the utterance would end the world right there. But when he looked through the beams of the half-building, he didn’t see fire. He saw the light and dark, and _oh my god_ fireworks. The sky was brighter than Eddie had ever seen it and it was shining every color of the goddamned rainbow.

Eddie turned and looked at Richie, who must have been watching him the whole time. His pale skin was highlighted in the light of the fireworks and every color in the world danced across his face and Eddie wondered if angels really did exist.

Eddie’s eyes were heavy and wet and then he realized he was crying because he was so grateful to still be alive. He fell into Richie’s arms, leaning against his chest, and Richie hugged him to his body tightly. Then he leaned his face up, as the tickle of Richie’s hair glided across his forehead, and he took a moment to breathe in every bit of this moment. Eddie kissed Richie again, not caring if they were under the light of a thousand colored suns, and exposed to anyone who was watching because Richie’s lips were just as soft in a way he could never have expected because of the disgusting things Richie usually used his mouth to say. And suddenly, Eddie wondered what else Richie could use his mouth for. Thoughts that Eddie had locked down so tight in the deep corners of his mind were suddenly pouring through him like water, but he didn’t care anymore to try and stop them. Instead he was pulling at Richie’s sweater and bringing him as close as he could, and he could hear Richie’s breathing turn to panting. It wasn’t Eddie’s first kiss but damn did it feel like it because he didn’t know he could ever feel like this at all.

The heat, the stuffy kind that made Eddie sick, didn’t return because he’s sure that nothing about what he’s doing could ever be evil. Instead, Eddie feels warm like the Hawaiian sun is on his hair, or the roaming lingering heat of a Nevada farm, or thick linen wrapping him up in bed.

The cold returns, though, when Richie is pulling away again and standing up because white snowflakes were falling around them and Eddie hadn’t even noticed.

“It’s snowing, Eds,” Richie said, his voice still husky, and thick.

“Yeah,” Eddie said, because it is, but his mind can’t stop to appreciate it, because it was so focused elsewhere.

“We should get back to the party,” Richie said, and suddenly Eddie knew what he meant. That it was just a kiss. That it was a fleeting jump at joy with the promise of a New Year and he was vulnerable and Richie just saw his opportunity but now the lights were on and they couldn’t hide and what meant everything to Eddie meant nothing to Richie.

His face must have betrayed his thoughts because suddenly Richie’s eyebrows were furrowed again and sad. He leaned down, and brought his hands back up to Eddie’s face and said, “I’ve been waiting six years to kiss you, you know that, right?”

At this, Eddie leaned forward and kissed Richie himself again, because he’s also been waiting that long to fall in love like this.

“I just want to go back, baby, cause this building is fucking cold, and all I want to do is kick everyone out of my place so we can go on living in this world that didn’t end,” Richie said when he pulled away.

“Okay,” Eddie said. Then he added, “You got me for a second there, fucker.”

“Oh, trust me, I’ll be getting you soon,” Richie said and winked and Eddie felt a billion different things he didn’t know he could feel.

The ride down the platform was _much_ worse and also much better because Richie held his hand the whole way down and rubbed his thumb and it’s as if all the energy in the world is sucked into this tiny moment.

“You know, Mr. Spaghetti, I only kissed you to stop the world from ending. No God would smite us down if we started dating. I had to go make sure that wouldn’t happen. We’re too perfect,” Richie said when they reached the ground.

“Dating?” Eddie asked.

“Yeah, how the fuck am I supposed to go back to living a life without you kissing me?” Richie asked, as he helped Eddie off the platform and over the fence.

“Wait, Rich, I gotta ask you something,” Eddie said, as they landed on the other side of the fence.

“What’s that?”

“Why the fuck did you set me up with some girl tonight?” Edide asked, the memory of Greta having unfortunately brought itself back to his mind.

Richie laughed, so thickly and so heavily that Eddie wondered if he could even breathe like that. “I thought you were mad that I set Ben up and not you,” he stuttered out. “Plus, ya know, you never said you were into me, much less men at all.”

Eddie blushed. He had never wanted to admit it. Not until now. Not until he knew it would bring him Richie. “Well, I am into you, fuck you very much,” Eddie said and Richie seemed to float.

The street is even busier and there are what seems like thousands of people running through it, blowing kazoos and laughing and throwing tiny snowballs at each other. Eddie and Richie are then laughing too and running and jumping, and Eddie wondered if he had ever known joy like this before. He almost feels like he was flying, right there in the street with flurries of snow blizzarding around him and carrying him to his future.

When they reached Richie’s apartment, Eddie immediately moved to go in, but Richie stopped him and held him back on the porch.

“What is it?” Eddie asked, and Richie smiled.

“Can I kiss you again? It already feels like it’s been too long,” Richie said.

Eddie’s mind went to all the people around them. The streets are packed and everyone and anyone would be able to see, to look up and see two gay men kissing in the light of streetlamps. Eddie would be visible, his truth out there for the world to uncover and pry apart.

But Eddie knew the answer, just as he always has.

“Yes.”

Then Richie darted down so fast that Eddie nearly jumped back in surprise. But he meets him with a ferocity of his own and is running his tongue along Richie’s lips and the world still doesn’t end but instead he might have heard people cheering.

But it doesn’t matter because the only thing Eddie is absolutely sure of, is that tonight, he must have died, and the world must have ended because where he is now is so different and so right, and _so, so, so much better_. Now, that the world was here, and alive, and surrounding him, Eddie was flying through it like he always dreamed about. He was no longer watching from his bedroom window, but he was right there, amidst the stars and the light. His world _had_ ended, but he was finally living.


	2. July 31st, 1969

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie and Eddie meet on a beach in 1969.
> 
> OR
> 
> Richie almost drowns because he doesn't listen to hurricane warnings when he goes out to surf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, I'm back! This chapter is longer, so it took a bit of time, but hopefully I can maintain a posting schedule. I also revised the previous chapter, but all of this is un-betad so it can be tough. Hope you like it!!! :)

**July 31st 1969**

**Honolulu, Hawaii**

_“Wouldn’t it be nice to live together_

_In the kind of world where we belong.” _

_\- The Beach Boys_

_“I want to love a boy_

_The way I love the ocean.”_

_-Maya Hawke_

_“Little Surfer Little One_

_Made my heart come all undone_

_Do you love me, do you surfer girl?” _

_\- The Beach Boys_

Today sure was a scorcher.

Sitting alone on his surfboard, miles away from the shore, Richie August can already feel his skin burning, regardless of the deep tan that he had built over the summer. The heat clings to him, and despite the water below, he's sweating. _Whatever. _He feels safe in the crashing waves around him. 

_The sun can go fuck itself, ha!_

He is the only surfer out today, off the shore of Kailua Bay, one of the best spots for boarding, if you asked him. The sky looks clear, the water is blue, but the ocean is empty. He wonders absently if it has anything to do with that weather warning he had ignored when he woke up in bed this morning.

Thinking back, Richie could barely remember what the radio was even going on about. He tried to picture it.

_Richie was lying on his bed, sweat sticking to his skin, with a fan rotating lazily on its circuit in the corner of his room. The windows were open, but they provided no wind to relieve him of the sticky heat that clung to him like plastic wrap. He was boiling. Elvis was singing, asking Richie if he was lonesome tonight. How could he be alone in Hawaii? He wasn’t alone. Then the song ended, and Richie was standing up. What did the radio say after that? It was too quiet. _Fuck it!_ It was his fucking day off. He was going to use it if it killed him. _

_Richie threw on his lucky board shorts, and listened to the garbled sound his radio coughed out, _“Watch out folks, a real doozy of a hurric-” _before he’s smacking it off. Can’t hear it, so it won’t come true. That’s logic for you. He stumbled out of his shitty one-bedroom barely-a-house and climbed into his even shitter Jeep Wagoneer that he had bought a little over two years ago. He had gotten it for such a deal he was sure it was at one point a body-stashing-mobile. It didn’t bother him though, and he actually liked the idea it was haunted. Little bit of mystery to keep his mind occupied when he drove down the coast. He pops in a cassette, Pet Sounds by the Beach Boys, then he’s hightailing it to the best place in the world. The beach. _

Now, Richie was sitting in the ocean, with warm water tickling his feet and he wondered if it was such a good idea to toss three handfuls of water over his shoulder when he paddled out past the surf. It was a ritual that brought big waves, and Richie wanted big waves, _right?_ Not too big, sure. Not like _hurricane _big.

No big waves come, though, and the ocean is still and silent, holding back its promises. Richie wants to hear the burst of water, the swell of the sea, the crashing of waves, something, _anything._

So, he lays back on his board and closes his eyes. Maybe if he’s really quiet, he’ll hear something. He listens, and does hear the steady lapping water that creeps up onto his back and tickles his hair. He hears the far off squawk of seagulls. But other than that, near silence. It’s creepy. It reminds him that he only has two days until he’s back on the grind at the radio station, or probably pulling shifts at a construction site, so he can pay off his latest board-repair. _Sucks, man._

It’s not like he didn’t like working at the radio. He loves being on-air, picking out the best songs for people to jam out to. But the pay was shit and he spent most of his time listening to the songs that just made him want to be out on the ocean, anyway. He didn’t even like his coworkers. They were all old guys who only hired him because they needed someone edgy enough to fill the 9pm-3am slot during the weekdays. Hours reserved for beach bums, like him, and drunks, also like him.

_Whatever, man. At least I got this. _Richie smiles to himself because _yes_ he did have this, and he also had his local bar, _The Melon_, his destination for the end of today. People liked him _there._ The bartender, a fiery little punk named Beverly, liked him well enough, and swore that she always listened to his shows. She gave him shit though, like all night, but in the end she always asked him about himself with a genuine sincerity that could nearly give him whiplash. She’d ask about his plans, his future, hopes and dreams. Boring shit to Richie, but she cared. And, Richie can’t lie, she’s damn sexy, too. She’s sexy in a way that makes you want to watch her all night just to see the way she carries herself and moves about. But that ship was quite distant from Richie, because she was happily married to Ben, another owner of the bar, and Richie was a guy just chock-full of respect, and wouldn’t dare do anything to upset either of them. 

The same can’t be said for those New York business men, who’d show up every summer, doing speed in the bathroom, coming out all fired up and looking at Bev like she was something out of this world, something from the Twilight Zone, something to conquer and take. So Ben would have to come out of the kitchen, all huffing and puffing, yelling at them to take their rotten asses back to the mainland. Boy, could Ben make himself a scary shit in those moments. It was just too much, and it entertained Richie to no end. Once those idiots scampered away, the three of them would crack up for hours about how sweet and doting Ben could turn into Godzilla, and scare away a bunch of office-type losers. Then they’d all get tired, Bev would need to close up, and Richie would go home, laughing. The walk back to his place wasn’t bad. Just quiet.

Yeah, Richie wasn’t lonely. No way.

Even out here, with the little waves crashing at his ears, and the sun beating down, buzzing in his ears, Richie isn’t lonely. _How could he be? _He’s content. So content, and warm. Peaceful. Dozing…

.

Light pinpricks of cold water are tickling him awake. He shoots up, a sunburn having blossomed across his chest and stomach and looks up, at the very sunless sky. Thick clouds of gray are hovering above him, threatening him to move, to consume the whole island. They might just break at any second. Thunder rolls in the distance.

“Fuck,” Richie says as he frantically begins to look around, for something, anywhere he can go.

He can see the shore, but it’s far, and unfamiliar. Definitely not the shore he came in on. Well, _any port in a storm, right?_ Richie is paddling toward it, like his life depends on it, and it probably does. The drops of rain falling on his shoulders are becoming harder to ignore, and his heart starts matching the rolling thunder above. He’s panting, losing his breath, and working every muscle in his stupid legs to get to that shore before God reigns holy hell down on him. The shore is coming at him, slowly, too slowly, and his mind wanders to that urban myth about sharks getting hungrier during storms. _Dear god, let that be a myth._

Then the sky opens up and unleashes fury. The rain isn’t tickling, but it’s nearly stinging as it ricochets to the ocean, and bounces back up, making the water accost him from both directions. The clouds above light up with white-hot lightning and Richie can taste the ozone. Richie distracts himself by worrying about his pet fish, Steve, and who’s going to feed him when Richie dies out here, a surfer too stupid to listen to a weather warning. 

But then his feet are hitting murky sand and Richie is dragging himself out of the water, board intact and all. 

_Fucking victorious! Not a dumbass. Not today, at least_. He made it! _Fuck you, sky!_

But the victory is short lived. The sky bubbles with fury in response and lightning shoots right in front of his eyes and Richie realizes he’s not out of the woods, yet. He smacks away his black hair that’s falling in front of his face and looks for anything familiar, any sort of respite. But he’s on some beach that he’s never seen before, and now he’s panicking.

Then his blurry vision focuses on a squat little building, just a short distance away, and he sees the unmistakable glow of blue neon, and he prays it means “Open.”

Richie runs as fast as his shaking legs carry him. At 29 years old, just one year from old enough to start to _maybe _reconsider if surfing every day for the rest of his life is a genuine life-path, Richie can’t get his legs to move _quite_ as quickly as they used to. He wasn’t old, not by far, but he also wasn’t a spry 18 year-old, living on nothing but adrenaline and beer, who could paddle for his life and still sprint down the street after hitting the shore, on the run from the coast guard.

Regardless, he reaches the building, a corny little restaurant, its name written in curly blue neon, Eddie’s on 27th, that glows down on him with heat, and buzzes louder than the thunder above him. It gives Richie a chill. _Should he go in?_

Then thunder booms, rattling his bones, and he’s swinging open the door.

The place was dead empty. A small little diner-type, with all wooden furniture, and cozy red booths, softly lit, and still airy, is what Richie stumbles into. Richie wipes the rain off his face and looks up, realizing, _no_, it’s _not _dead-empty. Two men, one at the bar, and one behind it, are looking up at him, the shaky, soaking wet mess that just barged into their peace and quiet.

One of the men, the one sitting at the bar, is already smirking at him, as if by nature Richie was a goddamn joke. He _was_, but this man shouldn’t have known it yet.

The other was watching him with eyes so brown and warm… and oddly familiar… that Richie thought for a second he was still swimming. Those eyes were so sweet and so kind, it was a pretty big contrast to the furrowing eyebrows and the grimace that was prying open his mouth.

“_Lovely weather we’re having, innit_?” Richie barks, in some shitty Enligsh accent that he can’t get quite right, breaking the tense silence.

“You’re making a puddle in my dining room,” the man behind the bar says, so angry it almost makes Richie giggle.

“Oh, sorry,” Richie says and looks around, for something to do about it. All he has is his board. _What the fuck is he supposed to do about it?_

“Were you out surfing in that storm?” the other man asks, a smile pulling on his full lips. _Shit, he’s pretty cute, too._

“What storm?” Richie responds, a smirk of his own. The other guy laughs.

The guy behind the bar, the angry one, just crosses his arms and huffs, making Richie want to stride right over and uncross those cute little arms for him. 

“I’m Mike,” says the man sitting at the bar.

The man behind the bar leans down and grabs a towel, before he throws it at Richie with such force that it hits him in the chest with an exaggerated _thud_, which kind of fucking hurt considering his new sunburn.

“Thanks, uh, Eddie, I’m guessing,” Richie says as he begins to pat himself off, rubbing the towel through his hair and across his shoulders.

“Good guess and congratulations on being able to read a sign,” Eddie snarks, continuing to rub down drinking glasses, and staring holes into Richie’s face.

_Damn_, Richie thought, _this little man was fiery._ Richie could just eat him up, it was so cute.

“Well, I’m Richie Fucking August, not that you asked, and I am very pleased to meet the famous Eddie of the world-renowned Eddie’s on 27th! But I gotta ask, for the folks in the back, the 27th what, Eds? 27th year? Cause, darlin’, ya don’t look a day over 18,” Richie says, his mouth running fast under the perpetual stare that Eddie had been giving him ever since he walked into this damn restaurant. _Might as well give him a show._

Eddie cocks an eyebrow at him, and a shiver runs through Richie’s body because it was familiar in a way he couldn’t understand. _Just giving Eds the whats-what, again. Again? Again._

“Keep running your mouth like that, and I’m gonna kick you out of this establish-”

A thunder clap, loud and violet, tears through the sky, rattling the windows of the restaurant open and sending rainwater firing into the restaurant, leaking onto the tables and forming tiny, growing puddles.

“Oh shit,” Eddie mutters, as he darts around the bar, his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth a tight line, but Richie is closer and faster. He starts slamming the windows shut and locking them in place, shoving out the threatening rain, and saving Eddie’s tables from further water damage. Mike runs up as well, tackling the windows from the other side of the bar. In a flurry of movement, the three acting in tandem are able to fasten all of the windows shut, protecting Eddie’s on 27th from the earth-shaking storm outside.

After doing his good-deed for the day, Richie falls down on a chair and laughs, the white towel still dangling around his sun-kissed shoulders. “Still gonna kick me to the curb, Eds?” Richie asks, plastering on his favorite shit-eating grin.

“Don’t call me Eds and I’ll let you stay,” Eddie warns, despite the smile sneaking up his face.

“I’ll agree to your terms, but I gotta say, I’m not a man of my word,” Richie quips back. _What’s gotten into him?_ It’s like he can’t stop running his mouth around this little firecracker.

“So, seriously, man, what in God’s name were you doing out there in the middle of a hurricane? Ya got a death wish or something?” Mike asks, shaking off spare raindrops that had fallen on his dark forearms.

“I didn’t know a storm was coming.”

“What? Do you not listen to the radio? Are you a hippie?” Mike asks.

“It’s all the same with beach bums, Mike. Body in the water, head in the clouds,” Eddie says while he wipes away the rain from the tables.

“You know, I take offence to that,” Richie says. “And aren’t we all hippies? Living in Hawaii?”

“Speak for yourself,” Mike laughs.

“And for the weather warning, I just missed it. It’s my day off, ya know. Don’t need to think about things on your days off. And I didn’t want to spend it trapped up inside like a couple of… Barneys or something.”

“Barney? What, you think we’re surfers, too?” Eddie asks.

“Your restaurant's on the beach! Who has a restaurant this close to the waves and isn’t a surfer? What just got an affinity for the view? Or is it the view of the chicks?” Richie giggles.

Mike shoots Eddie a glance, so quickly and abruptly, that Richie barely picks up on it. He definitely doesn’t pick up on what it means, either.

“No. Not a surfer. I’ll have you know that I picked this place because the easiest customers are beach bums, like you. Always falling in here, boards crashing to the floor and scuffing up the polish, just about dying for a burger. Your type are easy customers, you know, when you have money that is,” Eddie explains.

“Hey, I’m no bum! I have a job and look,” Richie says, tugging the side of his board shorts down to fish out a small plastic bag from the pocket on the inside. The movement reveals the white of his tan lines, and Eddie stares. Richie figures it’s a stare of annoyance. The bag has a crisp five dollar bill in it. “Hows about you fire up one of those world-famous Eddie burgers and we can make this a fair transaction?”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but walks toward the kitchen anyway. “Fine, _sir_, what can I get for you, today?” he asks, sarcasm lacing his tongue like fizzy soda. He snaps the lights on, illuminating the back kitchen, visible from the circular windows in the double doors behind the bar. “Just a burger?”

“You got any shakes?” Richie asks.

“Chocolate or vanilla?

“No strawberry?” Richie chuckles.

Eddie sighs. “You’re pushing it, _Dick._”

“Okay, okay! Just make me your favorite. I trust your taste, cutie,” Richie says.

Eddie just shakes his head and walks behind the kitchen doors, disappearing from sight.

“He always such a damn delight?” Richie asks Mike, who had returned to the bar and was sipping on his Coke.

“You seem to have particularly bent him out all outta shape,” Mike says.

“I can’t help it; I got a case of the motormouth,” Richie says, plopping down in the seat next to Mike. Richie was still wet from the rain and the ocean, and was starting to get a little chilly. Maybe he should have ordered a coffee instead.

“Oh trust me, I’m becoming well-aware of your motormouth,” Mike says, laughing to himself, his white teeth gleaming in the light.

Richie blushes and studies the restaurant. It was neat, tidy, and organized, just about the last thing he’d expect from a joint catering to the surfing crowd. It was quiet, no music playing, and Richie wonders if that’s because it’s just Mike and Eddie in here. It sets Richie on edge a little bit, and he drums his fingers to distract himself. He focuses on the chairs set around the room, made of warm-brown wicker and he relaxes a little. The wicker reminds him that he’s not stuck up in some office somewhere, trapped. 

Then, Richie’s eyes wander to the windows that lead into the kitchen, where they land on Eddie’s small figure, cooking at the grill. Eddie looks especially tan under the kitchen lights, and a gentle sheen of sweat lingers on his skin, making it look shiny and like it’s glowing. Richie notices that his sleeves are rolled up, revealing muscled forearms, that look so _precise_ and strong. They look skilled. For a reason that’s distant and unclear, Richie wants to run over and touch them.

Richie just shakes his head, his eyes shut tight. Those kinds of thoughts… he’d get them every now and then and they’d throw him for a loop. Richie liked girls, ever since he was a little kid. He figured out that his favorite thing was to watch them walk, seeing how their long hair flowed behind them in waves and rivets, or bounced if it was in a pony-tail, bobbing like a little apple. He liked watching girls laugh, and smile with shiny white teeth and long eyelashes that watched you like they knew a secret.

But that didn’t mean that Richie didn’t notice boys. Notice how their muscles looked under cotton tee-shirts or how their fingers were long and bony, and the way those fingers stretched around things. He’d notice how much he liked watching them play sports, running up and down the field with the passion of an animal, sweat clinging to their necks, to their faces. He noticed boys. And right now, Richie was sure as hell noticing Eddie.

Richie pulls his head away, and turns to Mike instead. “So you don’t surf at all?” Richie asks. 

Mike laughs again. “No, man, I can’t say that I do.”

“Then what are you doing out here in the Sunshine State?”

“Sunshine State? That’s Florida, beach bum.”

“It is? Shit. Well what’s our state?”

“Aloha State,” Mike says with a shake of his head.

“Aloha,” Richie says absently, his mind still lingering in the daydreams of shiny tan skin. “So what do you do?”

“Usually hang out with Eddie,” Mike responds, watching Richie with perplexed eyes. “But for work, I’m a historian.”

“Yeah? Give me some history, then,” Richie says.

Mike shakes his head at Richie before he looks up, a smile pulling at his lips. “You, my friend, are sitting on the very seat that Buddy Holly sat on before he took his fatal final flight.”

Richie startles. Something about Buddy Holly has always given him the creeps. He loves his music, but something about him always throws Richie for a moment. Him and Paul Bunyan. 

“Yeah, right, man,” Richie says. He knows he’s being played for a fool. Which, he is a fool, but still.

Mike’s smile turns to laughter and he says, “Alright, you caught me. Just had to check to see if you had seawater for brains.”

“‘_You know, sonny, if I gave you any thought, I’d probably despise ya,’_” Richie drones in a horrible impression of Rick from _Casablanca._

“That was a horrible impression,” Mike says.

“Yeah, motormouth and impressions. It’s my deal, _keed_,” Richie says with a chuckle.

“You must be quite popular.”

“Hey, I got friends! You ever been to the Melon?” Richie asks.

Before Mike can respond, though, Eddie is coming through the kitchen, holding what looks like the holy grail of burgers.

Richie’s mouth waters at just the sight. Paddling for his life and all made him a bit peckish. “Oh boy, if that tastes as good as it looks, I might just have to thank you with a big ol’ kiss,” Richie says, and a grumble erupts from his stomach.

“Surfers,” Eddie says to Mike, “are all the same. Hungry and whiny. What, does your kind not know how to feed yourself before you leave the house?”

“Listen, when the waves call, you must answer. Plus, it’s bad luck to surf on a full stomach,” Richie says, staring at the burger just out of reach.

“Bad luck? I think it’s just dangerous,” Eddie says, as he finally slaps the plate down in front of Richie.

“Oh man, Eds, I really owe you. I mean first you take me in, now you’re feeding me. _Bedder dan me old ma_,” Richie says, his words twisting into his Irish Peasant voice.

“You’re paying me, beach bum,” Eddie says. “And I’m reserving the right to kick you out, still, don’t forget. Especially if you keep pissing me off.”

Richie just winks at him, his hunger taking over, and Eddie huffs, before turning around to pick up Richie’s milkshake. He sets it on the counter and Richie takes a moment, _just a tiny moment_, to absorb in the sight, before he digs in.

Richie takes one bite and convinces himself that he’s died and gone to Heaven. “Ho-ly _fuck_, Eddie, you are a goddamn wizard. This must be the best thing I have _ever_ put in my mouth, and _boy_ is that saying somethin’ with all the beautiful women there are on Honolulu.”

“Jesus, man! Can’t you ever compliment something, or _fuck_ say anything without being disgusting?” Mike asks.

“No, _garcon, not vith my horrible condition of ze motormouth, and all,_” Richie says, “_oui-oui.”_

“Yeah, that’s one way to put it,” Mike says. “You got a condition for being such a dumbass, as well?”

“Nosiree, that’s just luck,” Richie says as he takes a slurp of the milkshake, and dies and goes to heaven again.

“I mean, seriously! Who doesn’t check the weather before going out to surf?”

“Listen, pal, I listen to the radio all damn day on the days I gotta work. I need to know what the other hosts are playing so I don’t-”

“You _work_ for the radio?!” Eddie gasps.

“Yes-”

“And you still didn’t hear about this storm?” Eddie says, his brown eyes bugged out.

“You must be a fancy kind of stupid,” Mike says with a shake of his head.

“That is so dangerous,” Eddie adds.

“Hey, I welcome danger. Danger and I go way back. And you’re one to talk, Eddie Spaghetti, keeping your restaurant open in this storm. That sounds pretty fancy-stupid to me.”

Mike turns on Eddie, “Yeah, why _did _you open up, today?”

Eddie shrugs. “I was gonna stay closed, today. But, I don’t know. Something in my head told me to stay open,” Eddie says, suddenly looking a little nervous, like he doesn’t want to say exactly what he’s about to say. “I thought some dumb surfer might get caught out there in the storm. Had to keep my store open so he wouldn’t drown in that monsoon. I don’t know, it was just a feeling,” Eddie finishes with a sigh.

“You psychic or something? Looking out for me before we’ve even met? Tell me, Eds, what’s my fortune? Will I win the lottery? Find the babe of my dreams?” Richie asks, enunciating each of his questions with a wave of a french-fry.

“All I see in your future is sand up your ass,” Eddie says.

“I’ll have you know that I _do_ have sand up my ass, and I thank you for taking such a special interest in it,” Richie says with a wink, and blush runs up Eddie’s face so fast that Richie is sure he’s about to get kicked out.

“You know, I’m suddenly having another vision. It’s of someone knocking you on your ass after you rattle off another dumbass joke. Seriously, how the hell did you ever get hired?”

“I was hired for the coveted spot of 9pm to 3am of Hawaii’s very own Hit 107.2. They practically begged me to come work for them. Said I had a face just fit for radio,” Richie says with a laugh, pinching at his own cheeks.

“Oh shit!” Mike exclaims. “Oh shit! _You’re _Richie August! Richie August of Beach Boy Hour!” 

“What?” Richie asks. 

“I know your show! I’ve heard it! We both have! All you play, every single night, are the damn Beach Boys! Every damned night!” Mike explains, jumping up and down in his seat like he just invented gravity.

Eddie is laughing as Mike explains, holding his stomach and tearing up in his eyes. Eddie chokes out between gasps of laughter, “Oh my god, _the_ Richie August of Beach Boys hour. Right in my very own restaurant!”

“Well, first of all, The Beach Boys are musical geniuses. Second of all, you two are clearly fans. And third of all, I don’t _just_ play the beach boys”

“He’s right, Mike,” Eddie says, pulling himself up from his laughing fit. “Once a night, when the moon hits _just _right, he will play one single Elvis. That’s a _huge _variety, you know.”

“You know what?” Richie asks. “You two clearly know my show. Would either of you like an autograph? How about a polaroid? You can hang it on the wall. Show everyone when the dastardly handsome Richie August came to your little restaurant and it just about _killed ya.”_

“Oh, Surfer Boy, I only play your show when I have to close up shop. It’s perfect motivation, you see, cause it’s just so damn awful that I work at twice the speed just so I can turn it off faster,” Eddie explains, as he leans across the bar toward Richie, a smile curling his lips. At this distance, Richie picks up on the smell of soap wafting off of Eddie’s body. He never realized soap was so sexy.

“Oh, Eds, flattery _will_ get you everywhere,” Richie says with a wink, leaning across the bar, pulling his face even closer to Eddie’s. 

Eddie scrunches up his nose, just slightly, and it’s so cute that Richie wants to reach across the distance and rub at the little wrinkle of skin.

“You’re implying that I’d ever be looking to go somewhere with you,” Eddie responds, leaning away from their exchange, smile now a permanent residence on his lips and shifting so he’s stretching up, resting on the back of the bar behind him. He raises his arms behind his head, causing his muscles to flex in the light, and Richie dazes for a moment. _Fucking firecracker_.

“That’s fair, someone’s got me on reserve, anyways,” Richie says, keeping his own eyes locked on Eddie’s.

It causes Eddie’s smile to falter, and his head to cock slightly. _Richie gets off a good one_.

“You mean to tell me that there’s some poor asshole out there who has the misfortune of going home to your radio-face at night?” Mike quips, giggling into his hand.

Eddie pulls his arms down and crosses them across his chest, looking at Richie pointedly.

“For your information, yes,” Richie says, and Eddie fully deflates. “Eddie’s mom finds me quite handsome.”

Eddie sputters, his head knocked back like whiplash and Mike roars with laughter.

“You’re funny, beach bum, I’ll give you that,” Mike says, easing further into his seat.

“Funny?” Eddie gasps. “Maybe for a ten year old!”

“Sorry, Eds, can’t help it. I’m just funny,” Richie responds.

“Just for that, I’m docking a sip,” Eddie responds, yanking away Richie’s milkshake. He watches Richie with _those damn brown eyes_ as he leans over and wraps his lips around the straw. Taking a long, slow sip, he locks his eyes on Richie’s and Richie feels his face go hot at the sight. Richie’s jaw goes lax and he’s willing it to close with every fiber of his being, so he doesn’t drool right there onto the bartop, but he can’t quite get his body to listen to him anymore. Not with Eddie staring at him as he sucks on Richie’s milkshake, jaw clenched, eyebrow raised.

Even though Richie wants to watch him do that for just about forever, Eddie stops and pushes Richie’s drink back toward him, and right into Richie’s empty hand. The cold of the condensation on his palm shocks him out of his trance, and he barely spits out, “You’re _reeel _funny, _keed.”_

Eddie smiles at Richie. _Does he know what the fuck he’s doing to him?_ What _was _he doing to him? Richie was noticing, Eddie, that’s for sure, but other than that, he doesn’t have words for what he’s feeling. Richie does know, though, that after that little charade, he can’t stop watching Eddie’s mouth, Eddie’s lips.

Richie also wonders if Eddie can tell, because Eddie is rolling his eyes, and smirking at him. But then he turns around, hiding that cute little face, and reaching up, flicking on a radio that sat suspended above the bar.

“Well since you miss the news, let’s see what it has to say about this storm,” Eddie says as the radio flickers to life. He pulls a rag from the bar and starts wiping it down, totally ignoring Richie’s lingering eyes. _Bastard_.

The radio rattles some ads, Etta Jones sings about Iced Tea, and other jingles loop, before the broadcaster cuts through the chatter. _“Tropical storm Penny continues to tear across Hawaii. The storm is big one and it’s dangerous, and giving its worst on the island of Honolulu. Please be advised to stay indoors as we wait for this to pass. Some flooding is likely, and prepare for rolling blackouts. But don’t worry too long, Hawaii, cause tomorrow is promising nothing but sun in the Aloha state,” _the newscaster announces and Mike smirks at Richie.

The radio then buzzed quickly, as the broadcast changed to a separate newscaster. _“Continuing coverage on the Stonewall Riots, we’re investigating how something like this could have happened. Let’s take a look back at the NYPD and their treatment of fairy bars. What changed on that night to make the Queen Bees sting so bad? We’re talking to a local shop owner, who watched as the lilies pranced in the street. Sir, would you mind explaining what you saw that night?_

_“‘Yeah, I saw a whole lotta homos runnin’ through the streets in damn costumes. Men dressed up like women. Nearly fainted. Had to do about ten Hail Mary’s just to get that disgusting image out of my mind. Felt a lot better when I saw this one man, dressed all up in a dress so trashy even my mother-in-law wouldn’t wear it, get absolutely socked-”_

Eddie slams off the radio, the happy smirk long gone from his face. 

Richie looks down at his food as tense silence settles between the three of them. He had heard about the riots. He didn’t pay too much attention, as that weekend had served up some particularly nice waves, and he was occupied elsewhere, as per usual. It was better that way, because when he saw the story break, his stomach churned in an unfamiliar way and he thought he was gonna puke. It’s not like he knew anyone involved, or had even been to New York for that matter. But when he thought of the violence, and the vicious ways that the police knocked down people who were just out to have a good night and weren’t hurting anyone, his heart hurt in a way he didn’t fully understand. He worried for those people, some running for their lives, glitter on their faces mixing with blood. He also was in awe, at the ones who stayed back, fighting against the cops in their leather vests, and screaming “Why don’t you do something?” The thought of what happened, and the bravery sometimes brought tears to his eyes. Oddly, he felt himself personally worried. He could chock it all up to admiration at fighting back against The Man, and fighting against the stupid reigns that society had on them. _They were just living their fucking truth._

“Just let people live, man,” Richie accidentally mutters out loud. _Shit_. _Fucking Motormouth_. Richie knew not to talk about those kinds of views he had to most people. If anyone but just Bev knew about how proclivity for _noticing _men, (and probably Ben knew too but Richie can’t remember cause he was pretty fucking drunk when he said it), then he was running a real risk of getting ran outta town, or thrown in some damn looney bin. That’s why he couldn’t do LSD around other people, too risky that he might puke up his secret. But here he was now, bearing a secret truth for the examination of a couple of strangers. What if Mike and Eddie were like those cops? Or like those reporters? What if they didn’t accept _him?_ _Wait, fuck. Them. Them. Gay people. Them. _Richie’s mind turns over on itself as the miserably quiet second stretches out further and further in front of him, empty of responses, empty of laughter. He wishes that he were fucking surfing right now.

“What was that Surfer Boy?” Mike asks him, breaking the silence with a phrase that beckons more. 

Richie looks up and Mike is giving him a once-over. A twice-over. _Shit._ He went too far. _Said too much. (Revealed himself)._

_Well fuck it. Release the motormouth._

“You heard me! Let ‘em live!” Richie exclaims, jumping up in his seat and practically shouting. Kick him out. _He dares them._ “Fucking coppers. Keeping them down just cause they wanna bang people that society says they can’t. Pigs getting all pissy cause they’re getting turned on by some sexy motherfucking queers. Fuck. The. Man. Fuck the war! And fuck those motherfucking homophobic cops and the fucking media, while we’re _fucking _at it.”

Mike and Eddie stare at him and everything is quiet and lonely. Richie prepares to stand up, even kicking his feet out from the barstool and finishing off what’s left of his burger. He can’t help but tense up a bit as well, knowing he might have earned himself a sock to the face.

But Eddie breaks into an easy grin and it’s the most beautiful thing that Richie has ever seen. “Yeah, man. Fuck ‘em,” Eddie says, with a breathy voice.

Mike smacks Richie on the shoulder and says, “I think I was wrong about you. Calling you a dummy, and all. I mean, you’re no Einstein, but shit. You’re definitely not a dummy.”

“So have you been following the story?” Eddie asks.

“Not really,” Richie admits. “Just been hearing some stuff. At the station and all.”

“Shit’s crazy,” Mike says, downing the last of his soda.

Eddie is quick to pull out another glass for him, and this time Eddie fills it with beer. “On the house,” Eddie says with a wink and Mike shakes his head.

“You can’t keep doing that for me,” Mike responds.

Eddie puts his hand up to shush him before turning back to Richie. “I’m just surprised that this news is getting out. You’d think a bunch of gays making fools out of the cops would warrant some high-level coverup.”

“Don’t think the news was expecting people to sympathize,” Richie says with a shrug.

“I never thought I’d live to see the day where we, um…” Mike pauses. “Where we would get to see history change like this.”

“Glad we fucking did,” Richie adds.

Eddie nods, his eyes fixed on Richie. He had the same expression on his face that Bev would get when she would count the cash out at the end of the night, piecing together dimes and quarters, making change for tomorrow, adding up sums in her head.

Richie smiles under his stare, and eventually Eddie gives a small one back. Eddie is so pretty.

“You think things are changing?” Mike asks, now nursing at his beer with his eyes fixed on Richie.

“For gays? Yeah,” Richie responds, but Mike doesn’t answer, so Richie continues. “I think if things like this happen, and then the media reports on it, and more things happen, then things are changing. Listen, if everyone keeps paying attention like they are then things are gonna change. Quantum Mechanics and all that. Particles change under observation,” Richie says, his mind flashing back to a textbook his parents used to make him read in high school. He’d read it, because it was interesting, but he never cared much for doing anything with that knowledge. Some of the concepts stuck though. He wonders if he still has it, even though he hasn’t opened it in over a decade. Maybe it’s buried under a pile of trash in his room. Or under his bed.

“Interesting point,” Eddie says. “So what’s gonna change under this nationwide observation, then? Gays? Or everyone else?”

Richie pauses and thinks. His mind bombards him with the image of him on his board, coasting on a wave, chasing the light at the end of the tunnel. He had to get there, and he could only do it by going past the very water that was bringing him there. Who will reach the end first?

“Both,” he says, nearing the crest.

“I hope you’re right, friend,” Mike says.

Eddie smiles at him again and Richie’s heart sings.

“I like the way you think,” Eddie says.

Richie only kind of heard him, though, because his mind had started chattering under all the scrutiny and from riding so close to the sun. He was losing his focus. “Where’s the bathroom? I gotta take a leak,” he says, cutting through the white noise.

Eddie points with his thumb over the back of his shoulder and Richie salutes before marching off in that direction, even more aware of the cold clinging to his still moist skin, and the chafing of his board shorts against his thighs. He doesn’t even have shoes on, his sandals still tucked onto the dashboard of his Jeep, who knows how many miles away. His toes are cold.

Reaching the small bathroom, decorated only with wicker and palm fronds, and smelling distinctly like bleach, Richie begins to lose his breath. The little pieces of the puzzle in his brain were jumbling and jamming together, and a shaky picture was forming. Richie was _crushing _on a _man._ Not just noticing, but full on puppy-love, middle-school, Valentine’s Day crushing on a _man._ A man he had just met with eyes like chocolate and muscles that move like ocean waves under his tan skin. Richie wants to lick his jaw. Was this normal? He wasn’t queer. He’d fucked more girls than he could count, and _yeah _he liked it. But here he stood, hyperventilating in a tiny bathroom, in a restaurant he’s never been to, under the wrath of a hurricane, wondering exactly how to flirt with a man. He _had_ been flirting, sure. But was it all the usual fare of jokes? Did Eddie think it was all jokes? 

Things were changing. Under Eddie’s eyes, Richie was changing. He was moving toward the swell of the wave, and light was hitting his face. He was going to break through it, reach the end. He had to see what was at the fucking end.

Richie washes his hands and splashes off his face, taking a moment to stare himself down in the mirror. He does _not _want to fuck this up. He does not want to go out there, make one too many stupid jokes and have Eddie kick him to the curb. He isn’t even sure that Eddie likes men, but he is sure that if he does, Richie still doesn’t stand a chance. He’s a motormouth, a beach bum, a loser who can’t keep his thoughts straight long enough to learn anything other than how to balance on a board or memorize a song by the Beach Boys. He didn’t spend his days listening to the coverage of the Stonewall Riots, or making his own business. He spent his days with his thoughts drowned out by the swell of the waves, sunlight in his eyes, and salt water on his tongue. _How could he not fuck this up?_

After calming himself down enough to not walk out there looking like he stepped right out of a Hitchcock featurette, Richie practices his favorite game of pushing his thoughts to hidden cubbies of his mind. He will _not _say some stupid shit and get kicked out. He will _not _push it on Eddie, and get him so disgusted that Eddie can’t even stand to look at him. He will _not _get distracted again by the idea of Eddie using those cute little lips to suck on the straw of his milkshake, and looking up at Richie with those beautiful fucking eyes and-

He’s gonna fuck this up.

So he exits the bathroom, and walks to his impending doom.

Here’s the thing, Richie was never good at timing. Not once in his life could he say he got lucky, was in the right place at the right time, or knew how to gracefully enter a situation, and gracefully leave one. He was more like a tornado, blasting around and knocking shit over. When his grandmother died, his first thought was to crack a joke, right in the face of his sobbing parents. His mother slapped him so hard that his glasses flew off his head and landed with a crunch several feet away. Back in high school, when he’d have a massive test the next day, the kind of test that determines your future and shit, he would spend the whole day prior meticulously learning how to play _Peggy Sue _by Buddy Holly on the guitar. He sure as shit failed that test, but he just went home and played _Peggy Sue _so well than he thought he sounded better than old Buddy himself. 

So, yeah, his timing was off when he left the bathroom, and walked right back into the dining room, where there was now a whole extra person in there. That wasn’t the issue, though. The issue was this whole extra person was a man. A man who was very much, and very _deeply_ kissing Mike, another _man._

“Uh-” was all Richie’s stupid mouth could get out. He had never seen anything like this in person. He’d heard about it, especially with Stonewall, and he saw pictures, and sometimes he’d accidentally linger in a section he had no business in at the video store, but never, not once in his stupid pathetic life, had he seen this in person. But he wasn’t disgusted. He wasn’t shocked, or horrified. The only thing he felt was realization. Richie realized that this was a real thing and people really did this, right here and right now, and if men could do this, right here, in Eddies on 27th, then why in the ever-loving _fuck _couldn’t he?

But Richie’s blissful realization was an internal one, and the depths of his happy discovery do not play out on his face. Instead, he stands there, slack-jawed, arms loose at his sides, and his eyebrows all furrowed.

The other man rips himself away and stares at Richie with wide eyes and a sheen of sweat already collecting on his pale skin. His eyes start twitching between Mike and Richie, and Richie swears he can hear this guy’s heart beat from all the way over where he was standing. Mike himself turns around and audibly grinds his teeth. Eddie also freezes, his eyes darting between Mike and Richie as well, big brown eyes growing bigger by the second, which stretches longer and longer.

_Work fucking motormouth, fucking do something._

“Mike!” the other man gasps and grabs onto Mike’s shoulders with bony fingers, pressing deep into the cotton of Mike’s shirt. “Mike, you didn’t say anyone else was here!” the man says, his voice coming out as a strained chirp.

Mike doesn’t cry or whimper or shake. He steels himself, and squares his shoulders, so he’s facing Richie like a goddamn building, with his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Richie again wonders if he’s gonna get socked.

“It’s alright, Stan,” Mike says, his eyes still deadlocked on Richie. “We’re good, right Surfer Boy?” Mike asks, his eyes glowering, fire brimming.

Richie holds up a peace sign with his fingers, and Mike relaxes at the sight. “We’re straight, man,” Richie says, but his motormouth doesn’t let him get off that easy. “Well, you two clearly aren’t but, yeah, we’re all good.” _Fuck! That’s it. Goodbye, see ya later._

But Mike breaks into an easy grin and laughs and Richie thanks whatever the fuck is looking out for him, because he’s not knocked out and bleeding on the floor. Not today, at least. 

The other man, Stan, doesn’t share the same relief as the rest of the room, and instead is shooting nervous glances between the men.

“I’m Richie, and I’m a trashmouth,” Richie says, as he extends his arm out to Stan. “Nice to meet ya.”

Stan takes several hurried glances across Richie’s face, scanning for any sort of mal intent, until he raises his hand, at a pace so slow Richie swears he can feel his hair grow longer. He grabs Richie’s hand and shakes it. “I’m Stanley.”

Richie smiles again before he plops himself down in his own familiar seat and picks at the last of his fries. Eddie was watching him from behind the bar, but Richie didn’t want to look up, because he had already glanced at the easy grin that rested on Eddie’s face, the relaxed lean of his shoulders, and the way his eyes looked so soft, and Richie didn’t want to lose his breath again.

Mike sits back down as well, holds his hand out for Stan, and leads him to barstool right next to him. Stan obliges, though his eyes are still locked on Richie, watching him as if he expected Richie to transform into a werewolf at any moment and rip his throat out.

“So, Stan, this here is the famous Richie August. You know, the one and only DJ of Beach Boy Hour. Little Richie is sitting here all wet and naked because he thought Hurricane Penny would make for just _excellent _surfing conditions,” Mike says, either oblivious to the tension, or just pretending to be.

“You… you were surfing in that?” Stan asks, his voice still a wobble.

Richie smiles. “Hey man, need me some near-death experiences as inspiration for impeccable line-ups on the show. _Ideas aren’t yours for free,_” Richie says, lapsing into a Railroad tycoon voice, quirking up the side of his mouth, and pinching a fry between his fingers like a cigar.

“Yep, but now you’re bummin’ around here with us,” Mike responds and Richie laughs. Stan’s shoulders slightly unclench.

“Were you out in that storm, too, Stan the Man?” Richie asks, using the french-fry to point at the rainwater staining the tops of Stan’s button-down.

“I was home, actually. Doing work,” Stan says. “But.. I had to come back here and get-” Stan stops, before looking at Mike with a short glance. Mike nods at him. “Before I wanted to come bring Mike home. The storm is only getting worse.”

“Stan does the bookkeeping for my restaurant,” Eddie adds. 

“Yeah, real convenient for Eddie since we live just next door,” Mike winks.

“That’s a nifty coincidence,”” Richie says.

“Not really,” Mike responds. “We knew Eddie from before we got out here. He’s the one who got us all set up in Hawaii.”

“So, as a thank-you, I do his bookkeeping,” Stan adds. 

“At a rate that I am _willing_ to give up and just pay full price for instead,” Eddie adds with the ease of a conversation that’s been well trodden.

“Nope. You will continue to take my discount and be happy about it,” Stan responds, actually smiling now, for the first time since the whole “Richie walking in on them” thing. His smile was fragile, and seemed as rare as a diamond to Richie. It was a tight contrast to Mike’s easy smile, in a way that told Richie that it must be nice to wake up in their house in the morning and watch them get ready for the day ahead, like a well-rehearsed dance, all symphonic movements and swaying rituals. It was warm.

“Wow, Eddie, taking advantage of your friends like that? No wonder there aren’t any other restaurants around. _You know what, kid? I like the way you think. You tycoon. That’s how you make it big in the biz,”_ Richie giggles, returning to his railroad tycoon voice.

Eddie cocks an eyebrow. “You’re saying my burger isn’t good enough to beat anyone out? Implying I gotta lean on illicit tactics, Rich?”

“You’re right. Your burger tastes like Jesus himself came down from heaven and cooked it up in the back,” Richie says. “How dare I blaspheme you like that.”

“And don’t you forget it,” Eddie says with a wink and Richie melts.

Richie turns his face back down to his food so he can hide the blush that’s creeping up his neck. In the corner of his eye he can see Stan watching him with complete stillness, observing and taking it all in without trying to give himself away. _What can he tell?_ _Can he tell that Richie is… noticing Eddie?_

“You know, Mike, that storm is just getting worse,” Stan says, exaggeratedly leaning his head toward the windows. When Richie looks up, he thinks Stan’s eyes look too wise, and the smile on his face is a bit too knowing.

“How are you gonna get home, Surfer Boy?” Mike asks, nodding in a way that only Stan seems to understand. As if to enunciate his point, thunder rolls outside.

Richie knits his eyebrows together. He hadn’t really thought about leaving. “Cab?”

“That’s a no-go. No cabs are running in this hell,” Mike says, a secret smile running up his face that looked eerily similar to Stan’s.

Richie hums. “So no cab. How far are we exactly from Kailua Beach Park? That’s where my car is.”

Eddie looks at Mike and Stan, who look back at him before they all break into an explosive laughter.

“Oh god,” Richie moans. _How long was he asleep on his board for?_

“Two miles by sea, but about twenty by road,” Mike says as his laughter subsides.

“Well fuck me sideways, there goes my leisurely stroll home. What about hotels? Any of those nearby?” Richie asks, before adding, “that would take me in for three dollars?”

“I don’t think so. Seems like you don’t have a way home for the night,” Stan replies, shooting a look at Eddie, who now looks suddenly much angrier.

Richie pauses and thinks. He doesn’t know anyone in the area, all of his friends, Bev and Ben, being way far west on Honolulu. “Maybe I can hitch a ride,” Richie says finally, his last option. He had hitched rides before, it wasn’t so scary to do it in Hawaii. It was only scary back when he was a kid, hitching all up and down Los Angeles, doing everything he could to avoid going back home to questions from his parents about _plans and goals._

Eddie sighs, “Do you even know how dangerous hitching is?”

“Hey, I’ll have you know I can handle myself. You see these muscles?” Richie asks, flexing his bicep for Eddie like a bodybuilder.

Eddie watches him, his mouth a tight line, and scoffing under his breath. But suddenly, he becomes very interested in returning to wipe down the counter, not even offering Richie a sarcastic quip. _Fuck, has he gone too far?_

“There’s nobody even out driving,” Mike says. “You know, cause they all heard about the storm.”

“You can stay here,” Eddie says, his eyes distant from the group, instead focused on the counter and the rag in front of him.

“Oh, Eds,” Richie laughs, knowing Eddie is probably just joking around.

“I’m serious, Surfer Boy. Hitching is dangerous shit. What else are you gonna do? Go sleep on the beach and get struck by lightning? I’m _not _having your dumbass death on my conscience,” Eddie warns.

Richie smiles. “If you insist,” he says, with casual ease, but his heart is hammering like a hummingbird.

“Watch it,” Eddie warns and Richie shoots his hands up in surrender.

“That’s very kind. I don’t wanna put you out,” Richie says.

“I have an extra room. As long as you stop calling me ‘Eds,’ then it’s no trouble.”

“Thank you,” Richie says and blushes again when he locks eyes with Eddie.

“Speaking of, Mike, we should go home,” Stan says, resting his hand on Mike’s shoulder.

Mike softens and turns to him, “Yeah, love. Let’s get you outta here. Thanks for the pop, Eddie.” Mike stands up and turns to Richie. “It was… well it was just alright meeting you, Surfer Boy,” Mike says as he extends his hand to Richie’s and shakes it.

“It was a _de-light. _Haven’t been made fun of like that since junior high. Thanks for keeping me humble,” Richie says with a laugh.

“Bye guys, I’ll see ya tomorrow,” Eddie says as they walk off.

“Bye,” Stan says, and the two turn around, holding hands as they cross the restaurant. Upon reaching the door outside, though, their hands fall away from each other like feathers, dropping with the ease of practice. They go out into the storm, buoyed from each other, looking more distant than they had in the restaurant, where they were safe behind the shutters and under the eyes of understanding. Richie watches with a pang in his heart and remembers why he had never seen two men kissing before.

This pang though, is quickly replaced by the thundering realization that he was now alone, with _Eddie._ “Alone at last,” Richie says with a wink.

Eddie shakes his head at him but smiles. “Are you cold?” he asks.

“Thank god!” Richie erupts. “I’m freezing my damn balls off.”

Eddie grimaces but walks around the counter. “Come on, Surfer Boy. I live upstairs,” Eddie says as he strides over to the front door of the restaurant. First, he switches off the neon ‘Open’ sign and turns off all the lights before pulling out a long string of keys and carefully locking the front door. The motion reminds Richie of high school, hooking up with some girl and her locking the door to her bedroom to keep her parents out. It’s mischievous and enchanting, like a promise that whatever is gonna happen will be private. It sends a wave of excitement through Richie. Eddie turns to him and motions him up, and Richie shoots from his seat like a puppy, ready to follow him to the ends of the earth.

Eddie turns a corner in the restaurant, where a small set of stairs sit tucked away with an ‘Employees Only’ sign hung across it with a chain. Eddie unclasps it, but doesn’t head up the stairs immediately, instead turning to face Richie.

“You’re covered in sand,” Eddie says, and even though Eddie is shorter, Richie feels like a kid under his glare.

“Oh,” Richie says looking down at his body. Sand had been caked onto his legs in swirling patterns like birthmarks, and he hadn’t even noticed.

“I don’t want you tracking sand upstairs,” Eddie says, crossing his arms.

Richie frowns and begins to rub his hands across his arms to knock the sand loose. He also runs his hands through his hair, trying to shake loose the bits of it that had attached themselves there, but the lingering ocean water and rain has caused his curls to clump together, and he can barely move his fingers through it. 

Eddie huffs at him.

“Look man, I’m trying,” Richie says as he continues to run his fingers through his hair. He never really cared about sand sticking to him, it being such an integral part of his existence and the way he spent his days.

Eddie watches him pull and yank at his hair, before Eddie’s eyes travel lower, across Richie’s bare abdomen, past the lip of his board shorts, and all the way down to his sandy ankles.

Then Eddie drops to his knees and Richie almost passes out.

Eddie is quick with his hands, brushing the sand off of Richie’s calves, with firm strokes. Richie freezes, the sudden touch both paralyzing and burning. He watches absolutely fascinated by Eddie's movements, and completely lets go of his hair, having lost the will to do anything but watch as Eddie pores over him. Eddie's movements are precise, his hands sending waves of sand cascading to the ground and chills up Richie’s back.

“I fucking hate sand,” Eddie whispers against Richie’s legs, sending his warm breath tickling across Richie's legs in a way that tightens his chest and stops his remaining braincells from operating. When Eddie brushes off the last long swipe of sand from the back of Richie’s thigh, he looks up at Richie, with those pretty brown eyes, and Richie does everything in his power to sear the imagine into his mind.

Eddie stands up, smacking his hands together to rub off extra sand and says, “I guess that will have to do. You can use the guest shower upstairs to get the rest,” he says. He starts ascending the stairs and Richie follows, his eyes roaming Eddie’s back, down his white shirt, and to his black slacks.

“Next time, Eds, you should really be buying me dinner first,” Richie says, trying to recover from the state Eddie put him in.

Eddie turns around abruptly, and Richie nearly rams into him on the stairs. Only inches away from him, Eddie leans down and looks Richie square in the eyes, extending a long and slender finger, and pressing it into Richie’s bare chest. He whispers, “What, _making_ you dinner wasn’t enough?”

Richie gapes at him, but Eddie just turns around and continues to walk up the stairs while saying, “And don’t call me that.”

Richie begs his blood to redirect to his feet as he trudges his shaky legs forward. _He’s never going to be able to think clearly again, is he?_

They reach the top of the stairs and Eddie unlocks the door before stepping in and waving Richie through.

Eddie’s apartment is neat. All simple lines, made of reds and oranges. It’s warm despite the storm outside, with the slightest edge of grooviness coming from bursts of colors. It’s like walking into a sunset, structured and bright. Paintings of farms and and flowers hang on the walls, even more varieties of colors, and it makes Richie feel cozy. He could imagine dozing here, listening to a record while Eddie runs his fingers through his hair. _Too soon?_

“Nice place,” Richie says as he absently picks up a stone figurine of a turtle from the wooden end table next to the door and turns it over in his hands.

Eddie takes the figure from Richie’s hands and puts it back down in place, but Richie only notices the feel of Eddie’s hands against his, soft but firm. 

“Come on, the bathroom is this way,” Eddie says as he directs Richie through the narrow halls.

“Here,” Eddie says as he shoves a towel into Richie’s hands. “I’ll grab you a shirt and some shorts you can wear. You might be a little tall for it, but I’ll see what I can do,” Eddie says as he looks Richie up and down.

“It truly is a curse, my height and all,” Richie smirks.

“Is it?” Eddie asks, his eyes roaming up to Richie’s face. “Bathroom is straight through there,” he says, not missing a beat as he points to a door at the end of the hall.

“Thanks again, Spaghetti,” Richie says as he awkwardly reaches up and smacks Eddie on the shoulder, already missing the feeling of Eddie’s touch. _Stupid_. “Sure you don’t wanna join?” _Stupider._

Eddie just rolls his eyes and turns to walk away, leaving Richie to make the lonely, quiet walk to the bathroom.

The bathroom was even cleaner, sparkling whites and shining mirrors. It steamed up fast, though, and Richie could feel the cold melt off of him, straight down the drain.

Richie’s mind was preoccupied, though, as he thought of Eddie, and all the possibilities of Eddie actually flirting back, and all of it not just being another joke, like the ones that built Richie’s life. Richie _could _just go back out there, run a finger along that jaw, lean in, and taste Eddie’s neck. He could do it, just like he saw Stan kiss Mike. He could go out there, lean down…

Richie’s hands wander along his own body. He rubs his palms against his thighs, the same places that Eddie had been touching him when he had been brushing the sand off of his legs. He retraces the patterns they made, finding reverence for the way his legs felt under his hands, and how they might have felt to Eddie. His hands roam higher…

A sharp knock breaks at the door and Richie yelps.

“I uh… I have the clothing. I’ll just, um. I’ll just leave it outside the door,” Eddie says through the door.

“Whatever you say, cutie!” Richie says back, his voice pinched.

Richie finishes up his shower, hopefully having cleaned himself off enough for Mr. Meticulous, and sticks his hand out of the door to grab the clothing that Eddie had set for him.

The pile had a very large, very loose tie-dyed shirt that Richie guesses Eddie uses to sleep in, not really being able to imagine him wearing it about town. He could imagine Eddie in it, and it was cute to think of him under all the fabric, nearly swimming in it.

The next article of clothing was a pair of grey sweatpants, clearly well worn, and bearing the name of some high school from Seattle. Richie tugs them on and they hit him mid calf, but at least they fit. It was a little weird going commando in Eddie’s pants, but he also guessed it would be weirder if Eddie had also given him a pair of underwear to wear.

Richie glances at his reflection in the foggy mirror. He looked a little ridiculous, sunburn raw across his neck and cheekbones, in a tie-dyed shirt that wasn’t his, and his curly black hair a messy mop on his head, but hopefully it would all come across as endearing.

He exits the bathroom and wanders for a moment, distracted by the art hanging on Eddie’s walls. One poster is especially intriguing, being black and white, causing its lack of color to make it stand out against the explosion of color everywhere else. The picture is absolutely captivating to Richie. It’s of a Naval officer waving from the stern of a boat to a different man, still on the dock. They were standing as close as they possibly could be to the respective edges, and reaching for each other. Their faces were so sad, and they looked lost. But the photo still felt hopeful. Like that wasn’t the end and there never would be an end.

The next photo on the wall is of Eddie and another man. The other man was tall, with long light red hair, and had his arm around Eddie’s shoulders. They looked younger than Eddie looked now, maybe 20 at the oldest, and were laughing to the camera, eyes crinkled and heads thrown back. Richie likes how Eddie looked in it.

“Having fun?” comes Eddie’s voice from the end of the hallway. Richie turns his head and the sight of Eddie nearly kills him on the spot. Eddie is dressed in a baggy crewneck, so loose that it nearly teetered off his broad shoulders and skimmed the middle of his hips. Beneath the shirt, Eddie is wearing just about a single foot of cloth in the form of fire red tennis shorts, the kind men wore playing sports in the middle of the summer. The kind Richie always averted his lingering gaze from. Richie is having trouble doing just that, as the hem of the shorts is dangerously close to riding up just an inch to reveal the curve of Eddie’s ass.

“Uh-” Richie says and gulps. “Don’t know if you’ll want these pants back. Had to go commando.”

Eddie blushes. “There are washing machines for a reason, dumbass.”

“So what now? What’s next at Eddie’s Bed-and-Breakfast? Pillow fights for our slumber party?”

Eddie smirks. “Thought I could show you some real music,” he says. “Come on,” and he turns and walks toward the living room. “Now, I know the Beach Boys have your heart, but I got another band for you,” Eddie says as he bends down to an orange striped chest and pops it open, revealing a record collection that isn’t joking around.

“Have you heard of Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mich and Titch?” Eddie asks.

“How many bands is that?” Richie asks as he watched Eddie thumb through the records.

Eddie chuckles. “Just one.” He finds the record he was searching for and pulls it out with a careful caress and gentle fingers as he sets it on the record player. His tongue presses to the side of his cheek as he moves the record dial with precision to the exact song he wants.

“Don’t know if anyone will ever beat my Boys,” Richie jokes to Eddie but Eddie is too focused to answer.

“Give this a listen,” Eddie says as he drops the needle.

_‘Hold tight count to three, gotta stay close by me,’ _sings the record and Eddie’s eyes immediately hop to Richie’s face.

Richie raises an eyebrow to Eddie before turning to listen to the rest of the song.

Richie listens, and well _yeah, _he fucking likes it. The song rocked. Richie starts bobbing his head, and Eddie beams.

“Alright, alright. You’ve impressed me. Write it down and let’s get a list going,” Richie says as walks over to Eddie, closer to the record player.

“You like it?” Eddie asks, his eyes absolutely delighted.

“Yeah, it’s top notch, Eds,” Richie says, sitting down on the floor next to Eddie and eyeing his collection.

“Just you wait for what else I got,” Eddie says.

They sat like that for nearly an hour, listening to Eddie’s favorite songs and Richie writing them down as inspiration for his next show. Eddie would ramble about the songs, explaining the exact quirks of the band members or the relative goodness of each song compared to the other. Then Richie would ramble as well, discussing his favorite artists (other than the Beach Boys; he wouldn’t stand to listen to Eddie blaspheme them so they were off-limits in their discussion). They both lamented how they wouldn’t make it out to woodstock. Both of them agreed that it was way too far from Hawaii, so the travel alone was too expensive, but Eddie’s main reason was that he thought it would be dirty hippie paradise. Richie said it probably _would _birth a whole new kind of STD. Eddie shivered when he said it.

The two of them were listening to the last bits of a French singer named April March when Eddie notices that the rain had stopped.

“Oh shit, I thought Stan said this would last till tomorrow,” Richie says as he stands up and looks out onto Eddie’s balcony, where the twilight sun is breaking through the remnants of the clouds, sending rivets of purple and gold across the sea.

Eddie stands up, “I guess he’s been wrong before. I mean like maybe once.” He opens the sliding glass door that leads to a tiny balcony before he steps outside.

The record turns into the new song, singing _‘Hang up your chick habit, hang it up daddy-o.’_

Richie follows Eddie outside and looks out at the sea with him. The view was really outstanding, and the warm wind had returned, tickling around the edges of Richie’s arms. But it meant something. It means that Richie could go home. He doesn’t have to stay anymore. No more slumber party.

But instead of kicking him out, Eddie turns to Richie. With the wind whistling through their hair, the Hawaiian sun warm, and the smell of the ocean and rain floating around them, Eddie grabs Richie’s hands. Richie can’t help but gasp at the touch, so surprised he almost drops them, but then Eddie is smiling and dancing to the song that’s fluttering over the wind. So Richie smiles and starts dancing too, an awkward jumble of knees and elbows, but dancing nonetheless, and Eddie doesn’t laugh at him, just continues to dance, his hands warm and firm on Richie’s own. It’s dumb, and beautiful, and Richie feels the same freedom, the same warmth as when he’s on his board, surrounded by the ocean waves, a song in his head, a promise that he’s really there. He feels like he belongs. So he takes a moment and enjoys it, knowing as soon as the moment ends that Eddie will probably bid him goodbye and he’ll have to surf home alone through the quiet still sea, words unsaid and body untouched.

But that’s not the plan that’s written in the stars that day. Because the sky cracks open and roars, and the rain falls in murderous sheets, nearly drenching Richie and Eddie in a second, who both shout in surprise and rush back inside the warmth of the apartment.

They’re both laughing as they fall in a heap on the couch.

“That’s what I get for doubting Stan, I suppose,” Eddie says through hiccuping laughs.

“Yeah we deserved that,” Richie says.

“Guess you’re not leaving any time soon,” Eddie says, and Richie’s heart falls. _Oh. So Eddie was thinking it too, for sure._

“Did you want me to?” Richie asks, his face fallen.

“No,” Eddie says.

Richie’s heart flies out of his chest and he smiles.

“Besides, you can’t leave yet because I still haven’t fully educated you on life outside the Beach Boys.”

Richie smiles and says, “Is that so? How much more you got in there?”

“Oh there’s still a lot I can show you.”

“That better be a promise, Eds,” Richie says.

Eddie just stares at him for a second, before he looks away and thumbs at the hem of those fucking shorts that Richie couldn’t stop thinking about.

“So are you from around here, Surfer Boy?” Eddie asks.

Richie shrugs. “Nah. Just moved out here to disappoint my parents,” Richie laughs but Eddie doesn’t say anything, and just looks at him, wanting him to continue. “I grew up in California. My parents were both advertising execs. Wanted me to be, too. But, as you can probably see, Eds, I didn’t have the talent of selling lies, well, not in the way they wanted. So, I slacked off in school, doing everything else I could that wasn’t studying. Picked up surfing. Graduated high school and heard Hawaii had better waves, so I moved out here and the only lies I sell are the voices I do on the radio,” Richie finishes.

“Are you happy?” Eddie asks.

Richie pauses. “The best I ever feel is when the only thing I’m grounded to is my board and the water.”

Eddie smiles, but Richie isn’t sure he’s convinced him.

“How about you?” Richie asks.

Eddie firms his mouth in a tight line, like he’s considering something. He leans further into the couch, and his shoulder brushes up against Richie. He looks Richie up and down, his face so close to Richie’s own, that Richie can better see the curve of his cheekbones and the smattering of freckles across his already tan skin. Richie wants to do _something_, but he doesn’t know how.

Then Eddie matches him with a shrug and says, “I’m from the mainland, too. Seattle. I grew up there with just my…” Eddie swallows. “With just my mother. She was a, well… a particular woman. Real particular about a lot of stuff.”

“Like cleanliness? Or like your job?” Richie asks.

Eddie chuckles. “Yeah, definitely cleanliness, among other things. She was most particular about… well, about gay people. So, you see,” Eddie looks Richie in the eyes again, “When she caught me kissing someone in my first year of college, this guy from my track team, well she threatened to send me to the loony bin the next day.”

“Jesus,” Richie says. The story was sad, and it was hard to imagine how scared Eddie must have been. But Richie’s heart still fluttered, because now he knew.

“I ran away that night,” Eddie says. “There was this other guy I knew, an older neighbor named Bill that I used to have the biggest crush on who wouldn’t give me the time of day, which is fair cause I was like five years younger than him. Well he had moved out to Hawaii for similar reasons. I called him up and he booked me a flight the next day. He got me a job doing construction and I saved up enough and learned enough to fix up this old shack. And so, Eddie’s was born. Haven’t seen my mom since.”

“Wow Eds, you’re like my hero,” Richie says.

“What? What do you mean? You ran away from home, too.”

Richie scoffs. “Yeah I ran away cause I didn’t want to work in advertising and was too much of a baby to tell my parents. I ran away to surf. You ran away to escape a fucking lobotomy and you built your own restaurant when you got out here. You’re amazing,” Richie says, his heart glowing.

Eddie blushes deeply and looks away from Richie, staring at his own hands instead. “Thanks. It was always just about surviving, but yeah. I’m really grateful.”

“Where’s um… where’s Bill now?” Richie asks. _Was Bill going to show up any minute, calling ‘Honey, I’m Home!’?_

Eddie giggles. “Probably at home with his wife, you know, actually staying at home during a hurricane, ” he says.

Richie’s shoulders unclenched. “Wait, I thought you said that Bill was gay.”

“He is. Well, he likes both.”

“Oh,” Richie says. _He likes both. _You can like _both._

“That’s real nice of him. What he did for you,” Richie says.

“Yeah, I know. I owe my damn brain to him,” Eddie says. “It’s why I did the same for Mike and Stan.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. They met in Idaho. Fell in love, got caught. I mean, fuck. Gay, biracial, different religions. Got ran outta Idaho so fast they woulda made Roadrunner look slow. They got in contact with me through some other friends I knew back in Seattle and I set them up here.”

“That’s why Stan does your bookkeeping!” Richie exclaims.

Eddie laughs. “Yeah that prideful fucker won’t just let me pay him full price.”

“How do you all fly under the gay-dar here?” Richie asks.

“Rich, did you even see that beach? Do you see any other houses around here? It’s basically a deserted island on this side of, well of the island. All of my customers are tourists or surfers and they’re never around long enough to connect the dots. Or they’re of your variety and just way too doped up to notice anything.”

Richie chuckles. “I guess I can get that. Wow, man, you’re seriously _seriously _like the best person that I have _ever _met.”

Eddie smiles at him and blushes again. “Come on, man, let’s put on a new record. I’ll show you my favorite.”

“If it’s the Beach Boys, I’m calling Mike up right now and telling him you’re secretly a fan of me and my program,” Richie says, watching Eddie as he stands up, so reverent of the man before him.

Eddie giggles. “It’s not. Do you want something to drink?”

“Sure.”

“What’s your drink?” Eddie asks, turning to a small bar by the record stand.

“Guess,” Richie said as he bites down on the inside of his cheek.

“Alright.” 

Eddie goes to work at the bar and Richie falls into a trance as he watches Eddie’s hands, so practiced and precise, as they shift around the bar, hunting for ingredients and concocting. When Eddie bends over to pick up glasses at the bottom of the bar, his shorts stretch and Richie’s mind becomes unholy.

Too quickly, Eddie is done, and hands Richie what looks like the perfect whisky sour.

“Guessed right, kid. Thank you,” Richie says. He sips the drink and fiddles with the corded bracelets he wears around his wrist, classic fare for beach bums like him. 

“Thought so,” Eddie says as he sips on his own drink, before bending down to pick out this elusive favorite record of his, and popping it onto the record player. 

“This, my dear Surfer Boy, is a Bobby Darin classic. Loved it since I was a kid,” Eddie explains as he sits back down. He sits so close to Richie that his bare thighs are pressed up against Richie’s, which was still, quite unfortunately, clothed in those damn sweatpants.

“Oh?” Richie says but he can’t quite breathe right. His blood was rushing through his body, and it’s like his heart was pumping from his thigh right where Eddie was touching him. He had to focus elsewhere, so he turns his attention to the song.

The song playing is one that Richie has never heard before, he’s sure, but it sounded familiar all the same. It is so pretty, so light and hopeful, that goose bumps erupt across his forearms.

“You like it?” Eddie asks.

“It’s the best you’ve played yet, Spaghetti-man,” Richie says. He kneels forward to examine the album, solely with his eyes, because he could just tell he shouldn’t touch it. The album looks old, but still in immaculate condition. It was tearing only slightly at the opening, as if it had been used a lot. Richie imagined a tiny Eddie, holding it like a baby bird, with awe and reverence. It made Richie wish he had met Eddie earlier.

Richie’s gaze shifts as the song comes to a close. It shifts right to another record, tucked away, almost hidden, but recognizable in an instant. 

“Eddie you damn liar!” Richie hollers as he pulls out Pet Sounds by the Beach Boys from Eddie’s chest, and with even extra effort to control his frenzied excitement.

“Oh no. It was a gift, I _swear,”_ Eddie says, but the blush creeping up his neck says otherwise.

“Sneaky Eds, you don’t have to hide from me. I _know _they’re the best band to ever exist. Come on, let’s put this on and I’ll tell you exactly why,” Richie says as he hands Eddie the record, not wanting to mess with Eddie’s process.

“Fine, but only because I kind of need to know at this point why you _literally _only play them,” Eddie says as he fumbles with the radio.

Richie beams and does what he does second-best (surfing was number one) and talks. “You see, they’ve got the biz all figured out. They’re like the Beatles, but they don’t get the same recognition. Here’s what happened. They started off with this generic pop stuff. Radio garbage.”

“You work for the-”

“_Other_ radio garbage. Don’t get me wrong, it’s still good stuff. Very fun. But that’s not the art. And it’s not what the Beach Boys wanted to do from the get-go,” Richie says and Eddie nods.

The record starts and Richie gets even more frenzied. “But that radio stuff? Get’s them big. Real big. So you know what they did, now that they’re big? They get weird. Cause they had a fan base and support. They conned everyone into liking their weird shit. And they’re still big. Changing the minds of the youth of the world.”

“On purpose?” Eddie asks. His attention is so tightly focused on Richie that it’s intoxicating. The only person who listened to him like this was Richie himself, and that was only sometimes.

“Yeah! I think so,” Richie says, feeling giddy.

Eddie comes to sit back down on the couch, but instead of leaning back into his seat, he turns around, his back to Richie before falling back, landing his head right into Richie’s lap. He smiles and closes his eyes, bobbing his head to the music but Richie can’t think anymore. His mind is a nervous flurry and his hands take up the decision making, moving from fiddling with his bracelets, to carding through Eddie’s hair. It’s so soft. Eddie smiles even wider as he does this, and hums contentedly. Richie could probably do this forever and be perfectly happy. Richie continues to jabber, his hands matching his energy as they play with Eddie’s hair and Eddie gets to learn exactly why Richie never stops listening to the Beach boys.

The record is halfway over when Richie is interrupted by a loud crack of thunder, from the middle of explaining how their declining popularity was just a momentary lapse, and Richie was sure they were due for a resurgence.

It startles Richie out of his monologue, and he realizes that Eddie, now knowing about the Beach Boys, has a much greater appreciation for them. “Eddie! We already listened to my favorite song on the album, and that was _before _you know about their greatness. We gotta start it over,” Richie says.

Eddie smiles, his eyes a having grown a little heavy from lying down. He sits up and Richie immediately regrets opening his stupid mouth.

“Sure, I guess I should listen to it now that I know,” Eddie says as he starts the record over.

Richie gets excited as the music starts again, ready for Eddie to lean right back into his lap. But he doesn’t. Instead, Eddie turns to Richie and holds his hand out.

“We never finished our dance,” Eddie says.

“Yes,” Richie says, even though no question had been asked, as he reaches up and takes Eddie’s hands again.

As soon as Richie is up, however, Eddie’s hands drop from Richie’s. Just to land on Richie’s hips instead.

_‘When we can say goodnight and stay together…’_ sings the radio and it jams into Richie’s mind forever, in a way he knows he couldn’t forget if he tried

Richie becomes a mess of eager energy with Eddie’s hands on his hips. He tries to hold it down but it was slipping through his fingers like water, because of the way that Eddie’s fingers dig into his hips, gripping at the muscles he had built from endless days on his surfboard. The pressure sends shivers through his body, and balancing himself here becomes so much harder. He puts his own hands on Eddie’s shoulders, which were so broad, and deep, and solid, that they became the anchor he needed to not float away. Eddie’s eyes linger on his, still playful but with the slightest rumor of mischief that sent Richie’s heart racing. In that moment, Eddie could ask him to do anything and Richie would.

So, Richie sways like he’s on a board, and Eddie is the wave guiding him. He hopes he doesn’t fall.

The song ends and Eddie pulls away laughing. Richie can’t laugh though because his vision is cloudy with the feeling of missing Eddie’s hands. He can already tell he’ll never stop wanting that feeling.

The next song starts and Eddie falls back on the couch, chest heaving with laughter.

“Need help, drunky?” Richie asks.

“Sure do, Surfer Boy,” Eddie says as he reaches his hands up so Richie can pull him back up to his feet.

Or so Richie thought.

Because instead, when Eddie grabs Richie’s hand, he pulls, brutally fast and strong, and Richie is thrown off balance, falling directly on top of Eddie.

“Sneaky,” is all Richie can manage now that he is closer than he has ever been to Eddie, body flush against his. He can see the swoop of Eddie’s eyelashes, and the way they curve around his eyes, so dark and dramatic. So sneaky. Eddie isn’t smiling any more, and his eyes are flicking between Richie’s eyes, when they suddenly fall and glance at Richie’s lips before they pull back up.

Richie’s mouth is dry. So dry.

Eddie’s head is rising, his face lifting, his lips parting.

They brush, feather light, the ghost of a touch on Richie’s nose, and Richie is _sure _he has never felt something so soft.

Eddie’s head falls back against the couch, and his eyes return to studying Richie’s face, asking a question that Richie needs to answer right fucking now.

Richie leans down, and Eddie’s eyes shut.

He brushes his own lips on Eddie’s, using the same ghost of a touch that Eddie had, giving Eddie the opportunity to change his mind. This can be an accident. Eddie can walk away and doesn’t have to kiss back the stupid beach bum who spends his whole life lost in the waves.

Richie pulls away from the barely-there kiss and now watches Eddie with the same question that Eddie had given him only seconds ago. Eddie’s eyes are dark and heavy and Richie isn’t sure he can feel Eddie breathing underneath him.

“Richie,” Eddie whispers.

Richie opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, Eddie’s hands are on his face and Eddie’s mouth is on his, and his tongue is gliding out and Richie melts right into him.

It’s explosive. Richie’s head is spinning from the impact as he becomes a scramble of movement, interlocking himself into Eddie, trying to grasp at and touch every inch of him that he can. Eddie runs his fingers through Richie’s hair, and Richie trails his hands up Eddie’s sides, mapping out the bones and muscles of Eddie’s core. His legs lock in Eddie’s and he bends at his knees, rubbing his ankle along Eddie’s shin.

Then he’s placing frenzied fire-hot kisses around Eddie’s mouth, on his jaw, on the nape of his neck, before he misses Eddie’s lips too much and he’s back, drinking Eddie in like wine.

But Eddie’s hands dart from Richie’s hair onto his chest and he pushes him off of him.

Richie worries that he’s fucked up, or Eddie has realized that this was a mistake, but instead Eddie says in a voice that’s husky and thick, “My room. Now.”

Richie nods and Eddie leads the way.

They enter Eddie’s room, and it’s nothing but colors.

Richie only has the time to take it in for a second before Eddie pushes him back onto the bed and climbs on top of him, trailing kisses up his chest as he does. Richie finally gets a hand on those thighs he couldn’t stop watching and he marvels at how neatly they fit into his hands. Now it’s his turn to dig his fingers in and he pulls Eddie’s knees up, dragging Eddie close to him.

“You looked so fucking hot, walking into my restaurant today,” Eddie whispers against Richie’s neck. “All wet and tan. Wanted to take you to the back and fuck you right then.”

As he says this, Eddie grinds into Richie. Richie groans and digs his fingers deeper into Eddie’s thighs.

Richie kisses every inch of Eddie’s beautiful face, but Eddie darts away from him, downwards and pulls up Richie’s shirt.

“Nice sunburn, Surfer Boy,” Eddie says, as he presses a finger into the blushing red of Richie’s chest, studying the pale indent it leaves behind.

“I fell asleep on my board today,” Richie admits, blushing more and adding to the red on his body.

Eddie ducks his head and laughs. “You’re such an idiot. I fucking love it.”

Then Eddie’s mouth is back on Richie’s, then trailing down, breathing hot heavy kisses down his neck, across his collarbone, on his chest, down his stomach.

When he crests Richie’s waistband, all of the air leaves Richie’s body and he feels like he was knocked off his board and struggling to tread water, in a way he never thought he could like so much.

Eddie’s hands trail along Richie’s body, and tug at the waistband before tapping three times, a knock, asking for permission.

Richie nods, his body a swell of emotion and excitement, and Eddie’s hands slip beneath his pants.

Then all Richie can see are fireworks. Eddie touching him is so different, but so familiar, the way he fits perfectly around him, the way he tastes, like excitement and home.

When Eddie takes him in his mouth, Richie decides that he loves hurricanes. He loves every stupid aspect of his life, every dumb thing he’s ever done, every bad decision he’s ever made, because it led him to this moment.

He breaks through the wave and sunlight has surrounded him. The ocean is a roaring applause, and Richie is upright, the salty wind in his hair and on his tongue. He’s sure he could live in this feeling forever, his stomach dropping with each dip, each swell. Richie leans into the curves and the waves, and the sea is his, loud and beautiful.

When they’ve finished, they’re both sweaty and exhausted, but glowing. Eddie starts to fall asleep immediately, the thunder from outside long gone, replaced only by a light patter of rain. Richie stares at him, watching the way his chest rises and falls as he sleeps, bathed in the light of the storm outside. He looks so beautiful, so pretty, and Richie wonders what he can do to make sure he sees this sight again, every day for the rest of his life. He trails his finger along Eddie’s cheek, absorbing the softness of his skin, tracing the lines out to memorize them, just in case.

Eventually, Richie falls asleep, his arm across Eddie’s chest, and dreams only of him.

.

The morning sun stirs Richie awake, and he opens his eyes to Eddie looking down at him, with a smile on his lips.

“You’re cute when you sleep,” Eddie says and Richie relaxes. He’s not being kicked out, yet.

“Cute enough that you’ll come back to bed?” Richie asks as he reaches out for Eddie’s hand.

Eddie takes his hand, squeezes it lightly, but drops it. “Sleeping in is _not _how you make it as a business owner. Besides, it isn’t good for you,” Eddie explains as he stands up and begins to dress.

Richie pouts. _Was that it?_ Best night of his life and already over.

Richie stands up and walks to the bathroom, putting back on his still damp board shorts. They’re cold and unpleasant, just like the chills running through Richie’s body, telling Richie that he is going to leave and never see Eddie again.

But when he comes out of the bathroom, Eddie is holding up a pen and a notebook.

“Write down your number and I’ll call you tonight at 7pm. I want to make you dinner again,” Eddie says with a smile. “If you thought the burger was good, well just you wait.”

Richie feels like singing.

“Yes sir, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie says and hurriedly begins writing down his phone number, and his address, and Ben and Bev’s address, just in case. Might as well be safe.

When Richie hands the paper back to Eddie, Eddie leans up and kisses him again, brushing his face against the stubble forming around Richie's chin. Already, it’s so familiar and cozy. The urge to settle lingers in Richie's stomach.

The surf is good when Richie finally leaves, only after promising Eddie that he wouldn’t tell anyone about what happened. It hurt, but Eddie needed to make sure Richie knew to be safe. They couldn’t go and tell the world about them and announce the night they had together, just like Mike and Stan couldn’t hold hands as they walked into the storm. Richie had walked into the storm and survived, but he needed to keep himself safe, and keep Eddie safe. This aspect of Richie, this integral component, was to remain hidden, locked in a secret box for only his and Eddie's eyes.

Richie paddles off in the direction of his apartment, thanking the sea with each kick, each wave. He ducks his head under water and the ocean greets him with the same resounding swell. He smiles into it, salt water on his teeth, and knows without understanding, that he doesn’t have to worry about silence again. Because now, his thoughts feel warm, soaking wet, and full.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think!! Is there a time period you're interested in? I have them all planned out but I am open to suggestions!!


	3. October 7th, 1932

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie and Eddie meet on a farm in Nevada during the Great Depression
> 
> or
> 
> Eddie answers a question.

**Middle of Nowhere, Nevada**

**October 7th, 1932**

_“Now you don't need that money_

_When you look like that, do you honey”_

_-Jet_

_“If you love me hardcore, then don't walk away_

_It's a game, boy, I don't wanna play_

_I just wanna be yours, like I always say_

_Never let me go”_

_-Lana Del Rey_

_“Nothing's gonna hurt you baby_

_Nothing's gonna take you from my side”_

_-Cigarettes After Sex_

Eddie wasn’t expecting to find a dead body on his farm that night. No, he definitely did _not _leave his house with the intention of returning home to a bloody heap of a person sprawled among his pumpkins.

Most of all, he _really _wasn’t expecting the dead body to move.

The walk back from Bill’s had been cold. The October sun had set, taking with it the crunchy reds and oranges of autumn, and leaving behind a landscape of midnight blue and silver. If the walk back hadn’t been so familiar, well-trodden from years of nights just like this, Eddie definitely would have gotten lost in the inky darkness. Being absolutely boozed-up wasn’t doing him any favors, either. He had swayed most of the way, a drunken waltz for nobody but himself, and he had almost made it all the way back, almost made it to his house, almost made it to his bed. He thought of it the whole way back, the covers tucked in neat corners and ready for him alone, as it was every night, his only companion for cold months like these. That was the end goal for the night, peaceful lonely slumber. The biting wind propelled him along, and he kept motivated through the dark by thinking of his long sleep ahead. He was only 20 yards from his house when his plans were upended because he noticed the heap of rags and jackets dozing on his farm.

Drunk and stupid from a night of illegal drinking by candlelight, hidden in the cellars of Bill’s house, Eddie nearly trips over the gnarled vines of the pumpkins, only barely illuminated by the silver of moonlight. He steadies himself, with as much effort as he can muster, since his vision is fluid and his legs are like jelly.

The back of Eddie’s neck tingles with fear as he watches the shadow-hidden person begin to stir. The heap of bloody rags groans, and Eddie can just barely make out a mess of curly black hair, matted and wet against a pale face that almost glows in the moonlight. Eddie is _much_ too drunk to deal with this. His mind travels to the worst case scenario, as it usually does, but the fear is boosted by the booze. _What if he’s a vampire, out in the fields, ready to suck Eddie dry? Or a werewolf, masquerading as hurt, ready to leap up and rip Eddie to shreds? _

Eddie crouches, arms tensed and ready to fight back whatever monster this may be. With cautious but wobbly legs, Eddie approaches the man, masked by the blurry haze of Eddie’s drunken vision.

“Hello?” Eddie asks, and fights back the hiccup that threatens its way as well.

The man grumbles a little bit, in a way that isn’t _unlike _the growl of a werewolf, and the throatiness of it all stops Eddie in his tracks. Even if this man weren’t a werewolf, Eddie had heard stories of vagrants, sneaking onto farms, robbing the farmers of everything they had, murdering women and children. A bloody heap _would _be a good trick. Who knew if the blood matting itself to the man was even his? The realization of it nearly sends Eddie running back to his house to lock the door and call for Bill. Bill would know what to do.

“Hello?” the heap finally says, stirring under the rags. He lifts his head to Eddie, and Eddie finally looks him in the face. The man coughs, and squints his eyes, before he rasps, “Are you an angel?”

Eddie can barely see the man, his image still swimming in front of him, but what Eddie can see is shocking. Pale features, illuminated in the moonlight, contrast against dark hair, dark eyelashes, and dark red blood streaming like a river across his face, around his mouth. It frames his face like ruby thread, thin and thick and trailing around lips, falling into creases, and tracing a path that Eddie feels he’s walked before. It’s all so familiar, a shadow of his dreams a ghost of a thought or maybe a memory. A lifelong yearning of stretching and distance, to come together and to breach like the ocean, collapsing together and apart. A feeling that stretches into eternity, falls to bits around his head like stardust and magnets, returning to him a broken mess of blood and rags in his grass.

_Fuck, did Eddie drink too much._

But, emboldened by the buzz of alcohol in his stomach and the awful familiar pang that cut him so odd and strange, but fit between his ribs like an organ that had only just woken up, Eddie takes a step closer.

“Are you alright?” Eddie asks, kneeling in the grass. His heavy drunken blood nearly pulls him to the ground, but he regains his balance, just barely.

“I’ve been better,” the man says with a bloody lopsided grin. It’s revolting, but somehow still nice to look at.

“Why are you here?” Eddie asks.

“I… I need some help,” the man responds.

_Oh. Eddie’s heard this song before. _“I’m sorry, friend. I haven’t got any money. I can give you some hot water-”

“I don’t want money,” the man says, his voice firm despite its rasp.

“Oh.”

“Sorry… sorry that I made you think that,” the man says.

“It’s fine. It’s just the Depression and all,” Eddie says with a sigh. _An old familiar song._

“I just, please. I need somewhere to stay. Just for tonight, I promise. I screwed up my ankle pretty bad and I just need a place to sleep.”

“Oh,” Eddie says again. This is decidedly dangerous. Bringing a stranger in from the cold. Letting them sleep in your house, where you’re vulnerable. His mother would have killed him.

“Please. I know it’s a lot to ask,” the man says and his voice wavers. “I’m desperate here. Look, I can… I can give you this,” he says and reaches up a bony pale hand. The moonlight glints off a pocket watch, encased in bronze and shining.

Eddie looks from the watch, and his eyes travel up to the man’s face. The look he finds there hurts Eddie to his core. It’s the look of desperation and pain and hurt and loss. He knows this look. It’s the look of the Depression. It’s the look that haunts Eddie in his sleep. The look of his neighbors, the look from the photos in the newspapers. The look of children.

So, maybe it’s the shiny pale of the man’s face. Or it’s the smattering of freckles. Or it’s the blinding familiarity of it all that makes Eddie question his disbelief in past lives or maybe even love at first sight. It’s like he’s lived in this stranger before. Regardless of the reason, Eddie realizes he’s nodding and pushing away the man’s offer, instead reaching out for the man’s wrist, ready to lift him up and walk him inside, despite how drunk Eddie might be and how likely he is to be swept off his feet at the tiniest sense of imbalance.

“I’m Eddie,” he says, as he grips the sweater bound forearm of the man.

“Figures,” the man says and laughs deeply, in a way that entirely confuses Eddie. He doesn’t think he’s said anything funny, but the man is cracking up like he just told him he was a Senator or something.

Instead of questioning him, Eddie ignores the laughter, and braces as he pulls upward on the man’s arm, his regular strength subdued from the effects of the alcohol. The man scrambles to his feet, with the help of Eddie’s pull, leaning heavily on one side and wincing with every twist. “Call me Richie.”

“Alright, Richie. Let’s get you inside,” Eddie says as he loops his arm around Richie’s scrawny middle, supporting him with gentle pressure as they made the walk back up to Eddie’s house.

The walk is clumsy, Richie dragging his ankle and leaning quite a lot of his bony tall figure into Eddie, who is not only shorter, but still practicing the drunken waltz of a walk, a dance he hadn’t perfected enough to share.

The glowing light from the candlestick at his door, basks them in warm orange, and Eddie can finally see the man for who he is. The buzz of familiarity peaks, and Eddie gasps against it, chills running up the back of his neck and through his scalp. It’s too much. All too much. But Eddie continues walking, until the buzz subsides, and he’s forced to question what he was thinking only a moment ago.

When they finally collapse inside, Eddie feels loose and floating without the heavy pressure of Richie leaning against him. He jumps to his feet and makes quick work of lighting fires and candles throughout the farmhouse. The warmth chases away the lingering cold that had snuck its way in while Eddie had been out. Once finished, Eddie sits on the ground by the fire, and stares up at Richie, who is planted on the couch.

Eddie watches with a morbid fascination as Richie peels off layer after layer of bulky fabric, shedding them into a pile at the feet of the couch. Cloths and rags, jackets and sweaters, extra gloves and socks, all bloodied or dirtied with mud and earth, fall by the wayside, until a much skinnier and fragile looking man is revealed from underneath it all.

Richie catches him staring and looks back, “What?”

“You’re like one of those Russian dolls,” Eddie says, a current of drunken amazement running through his voice.

Richie smiles and shrugs. “These clothes are the closest I got to a house. Keep me warm like no woman ever could.”

“You live in them?” Eddie asks.

“I’ve got spares,” Richie responds and points at his bag, one that Eddie hadn’t noticed. “They’re like a home,” Richie says as he wraps his arms around his body and smiles broadly at Eddie. “Not my only home, though.”

“Let me guess, that and the road?” Eddie asks, already feeling an incredulous admiration for Richie.

“Oh, Eds! Getting off a good one. Yes, that _and the road.”_

“Don’t call me that or you’re out on your ass, again,” Eddie says with no particular bite at all.

Richie dazes for a second, like he’s lost his bearings, before his eyes settle back on Eddie with a familiar calm.

“I think I’d make it just about to the end of your farm before I’d be sleeping in another vegetable patch again. Hey, you got broccoli? I think they’d make for better pillows than pumpkins.”

Eddie laughs, “No. No broccoli. Not exactly a fall crop.”

“Right… right. Guess I’m stuck here for the night, since you ain’t got any broccoli.”

“Then you better not call me Eds. On account of the no broccoli.”

Richie starts to laugh before he’s suddenly calm. He fixes his blue eyes, blue like the ocean of an English sea, on Eddie’s own and says, “I feel like I’ve met you before or something.”

“Huh?” Eddie asks. He’s definitely never seen this man before. Though he looks so familiar and strikes such a strangeness in Eddie’s stomach. But, Eddie knows he’d remember someone like this. If they had met, face to face, in Eddie’s life, well, Eddie doesn’t think he could ever forget someone like this.

“Forget it,” Richie responds. “You ever been out East?”

“No,” Eddie admits.

Richie just hums, staring at Eddie like he’s questioning whether or not he’s an apparition.

The shrill scream of a tea kettle breaks through the stillness of the moment, and Eddie stands with a sway that nearly buckles his knees. He reaches out and steadies himself against the arm of the couch.

“Are you drunk or something?” Richie asks. “Ain’t that illegal?”

Eddie smiles, knowing there was no chance of hiding it at this point and brings a finger to his lips in a shush. “I’ll be right back,” he says.

The coldness of the kitchen strikes Eddie out of the haze. He’s pulled from the drunken ease of the moment, and startled awake from the fog that entered his mind the moment he met Richie. _What was he doing?_ Letting in a stranger, covered in blood, carrying God knows what diseases and God knows what sins into his house. He’s probably robbing Eddie this very second. If he stays then Eddie’s going to have to keep up all night, watching the man, making sure he doesn’t destroy Eddie’s house, or, _fuck,_ kill Eddie in his sleep. That would be awful. What would his mother think of him letting a stranger into his house like this, a stranger who could bring _illness_ or poison? Eddie might have to just kick him out. Either that or watch him like a hawk, get no sleep, get behind on his farming. It’s like he has no option but to kick him out. _Yeah. He’ll do that. _Once he gets back to the living room, he’ll just kick him out. He’ll be fine. Eddie will give him some money for the local hotel. See him off. Wish him luck. Bid adieu.

The thought is eviscerated, though, when Eddie returns to the living room and Richie is leaning his head against the arm of the couch, eyes already shut in peaceful slumber, and skinny chest rising and falling to the rhythmic ticking of Eddie’s grandfather clock. He looks so soft, almost like a ghost, quiet and angelic in the warm heat of the fireplace.

Eddie is relieved at the sight, but is struck with the mournful sadness of wondering what this man had been through. Why he had ended up here. The Depression had casualties, and Richie must have been one, dirty and bloody, ready to fall asleep in a stranger’s house at the moment of warmth, the second his bruised body hit the forgiving cloth of civility. Eddie couldn’t kick him out, not when he looked like _that_, a small puppy, asleep and vulnerable, and so trusting of his fellow man. Besides, wasn’t Eddie raised to be a _good_ Christian? Watch after his neighbor and all that?

Eddie sets the tea he made for Richie by the end table at the arm of the couch, close to Richie’s head, in case he wakes in the night, and scrambles for something to drink. As he does this, he takes an extra second to admire the way the licks of fire in the fireplace dance shadows across Richie’s cheeks, like rustling autumn leaves. Richie is beautiful.

When Eddie gets in his own bed, he isn’t nervous. A strange calm has settled over him, like the fog that settles over his farm in the early dawn of the morning. He feels as if he finally understood the meaning of a joke, or the answer to a riddle that had bugged him for weeks, for years, for his whole goddamn life. He understood something. Or he recognized something. The confusion of the drunken stupor prevented him from seeing what it was, but it was there, an answer so obvious he feels almost dumb for never getting it. It was a question he had asked himself his entire life, a question about the truth of his soul, a missing bit that felt like a craving you could never satisfy. He knew the answer had opened up in front of him, but it was still foggy. In the morning, when he would be sober, Eddie would figure it out, he’s sure. He just has to sleep… then he’ll know. He’ll understand. In the morning…

.

A rooster crow awakens Eddie to an ear-splitting, stinging, and gurgling hangover. The morning sun breaks fire in his eyes and Eddie wonders if he’s dying. He takes deep breaths, that soothe the burn in his stomach, and vows to never, _ever_ let Bill convince him to come over for a nightcap again. The thought of the wine bursts through his memories and he almost throws up right then and there. He chokes it down, and rubs his hands through his hair, struggling to lose the memory and focus on the here and now. He lies back on the starchy linen of his bed and lets his stomach settle, and focuses on pushing the pain away.

Then the remnants of other murky memories slug their way through his brain, and Eddie remembers that he isn’t alone in this farmhouse.

It comes rushing back, like a howling train bombarding through the still of the night. Eddie brought in a stranger last night. Into his home. A drunk vagrant. A murderous thieving drunk violent vagrant with a proclivity for turning into a werewolf and ripping out Eddie’s throat.

Eddie leaps to his feet, nearly vomits, then grabs the wooden handle of a broom that was leaning against the wall by his door. He chokes up on it, holding it like a bat, ready to meet the man who was probably waiting right outside his door, the man who he’s sure is ready to bludgeon him with a frying pan or flay him with a knife.

That man… _What was his name again?_

Eddie squeezes the broom and thinks. He remembers black hair. He remembers freckles and pale skin and blue eyes. A smile so familiar.

_Richie!_ Eddie’s hand loosens as if on reflex.

Then he imagines Richie’s face with teeth bared, eyes a crazy shine of lunacy, ready to rip Eddie apart for being so stupid as to allow a stranger into his house. _Big dumb move, Eddie. Real dumb. Fancy dumb. _

He swings open the door, ready to be brave, ready to fight despite the hangover cramping his muscles and churning his stomach. The broom is at the ready and so is Eddie, walking quietly, so he can listen for any sound, any movement. He’s ready for pounding footsteps, the pattering of feet, the high pitched squeal of a madman, running to shred Eddie to pieces.

All he hears are the far off cries of crows.

His mother would be screaming at him by now, screaming at his idiocy for letting in a strange man like this. She might never forgive him for such lunacy.

He steps forward, the soft wood creaking beneath his feet. His heart is hammering so loudly that he’s sure it might give him away to anyone listening. But he continues on, with tip-toes and bated breath. Eddie makes his way to the living room, his own death march down the aisle.

When he reaches the living room, he finds the man of his nightmares. The man he expected to be hidden in the dark corners of his house, ready to pounce on Eddie and suck blood down his gullet. Hadn’t there been so much blood?

But Richie is… well, Richie is just sitting there, on the same couch that Eddie had left him from the night before. He’s sitting up, awake but stiff, looking something like a prisoner waiting to hear his sentencing from the almighty judge. His back is straight and his hands are folded in his lap, tucked together like little birds. His eyes are cast out the window, black curls loose and messy around his face, and his entire image illuminated by the morning autumn sun. Eddie is struck again by how pretty Richie is, and his breath catches, but not in fear.

So, Eddie rests the broom down and the sound causes Richie to turn. His face breaks into a smile when he catches Eddie’s eyes, and Eddie feels heat on his cheeks. But, Richie’s eyes travel to the source of sound, the broom that rests on the corner, and his smile falls from his face like rain, with a frown taking new residence.

“Doing some sweeping?” Richie asks, his voice a sad and lonely tune.

Eddie shrugs, because what else could he do? “Listen, I woke up and remembered just enough to know I let some mystery vagrant into my house last night. You could have been a bank robber or something.” The embarrassment creeps a smile onto Eddie’s face, though he’s not sure why he’s so embarrassed to have just been playing it safe. What did Richie expect? It’s not like Eddie owed him anything.

“Maybe I am a bank robber,” Richie responds, as he scrunches his nose and narrows his eyebrows in a way he might have thought was threatening, but reminds Eddie more of the brown bunnies that scamper through his farm, stealing his carrots, masterful thieves.

“Well, let me tell you first thing, that you won’t be finding any money here,” Eddie says and it’s true.

Richie shakes his head, “Well you see, my _intention_ is to be self-sufficient. I’ve got no interest in your money, whether it exists or not. You wouldn’t even let _me_ pay _you_ last night.”

“Hey, I’m doing my Christian duty. I don’t want your money.”

“And I don’t want yours,” Richie responds.

“Well. That’s that, then,” Eddie says.

Richie laughs, a sound so loud and abrasive and haunting. “Listen here, I’ll be on my way tonight. I’ve got to catch the train going west, and it leaves tonight.”

“What train?”

“Well, the very train that deposited me about a mile away from your farm,” Richie says as he gestures to his face, still covered in cracked blood.

“What happened to you?” Eddie asks.

“Not obvious huh? Took a li’l tumble off a fast-moving _lo-co-mo-teeve._ Busted my ass, but my ankle took the worst of it.”

Eddie shakes his head. _Of course. _“That’s why you’re not supposed to go freighthopping. Didn’t your mother teach you not to play on trains?”

“My dear ol’ ma taught me nothing of the sort. Nothin’ but pills for rattles and whiskey for naptime.”

Eddie gasps. “You’re joking.”

Richie smiles at him, “I’m always joking, Eddie my boy.”

“Then why on earth would you do something as reckless as freighthopping? What if you tripped and got hit or something?” Eddie asks, ignoring the heat that had risen up his stomach and taken root behind his ears.

“You gotta do what you gotta do,” Richie says.

“And what you _gotta _do is risk your life jumping from train to train?”

“Hey, how else am I supposed to get west? Buy myself a ticket like some sorta deep pocket money maker? Some sorta Adam Smith type? Some sorta tycoon?”

“Uh,” Eddie says. He doesn’t really know an alternative. This is most definitely _not _his area of expertise.

Richie smiles at Eddie’s silence. “You see, you _do _what you _gotta _do.”

Eddie hums and considers. “You do a lot of freighthopping?”

“Yes, sir. Made it all the way out here from back East. This was my first nasty tumble. But hey, I think I made it out ay-okay.”

“Oh yeah?” Eddie asks. He sure doesn’t _look _‘ay-okay.’

“Just a little bruised up. Wouldn’t be the first time. Anyways, I’m probably fine to get a move on tonight. Don’t wanna stink up your lovely little farmhouse for too long. By the way, how _quaint._”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Okay, let’s see it. Let’s see if it’s in shape for you to do more freighthopping_,_” Eddie says as he moves over to the couch and plants himself right next to Richie. He may not know a lot about freighthopping or travelling or going out west, but he was an expert in injuries. Injuries and sickness and ailments. One thing his mother managed to teach him before she died was how to look after injuries, how to identify them, how to protect against them. She taught him half, and the books she left behind taught him the rest, clarifying quite a bit of what she got wrong. He had to know these things. Over time, the knowledge became essential, work-related injuries an intrinsic component of farming. Especially farming by yourself.

“See what?” Richie asks and his pale cheeks are overrun by blush.

“Let’s see your ankle,” Eddie says with the clinical detachment of a doctor, ready to diagnose and identify, like pages from a book. Nothing more.

“Oh! _Doctah Eds. I haven’t any money to pay for such a diagnosis_,” Richie says in a voice that Eddie recognizes in a way he doesn’t like for some lost reason.

“Shut up and show me your ankle,” Eddie says, grabbing at Richie’s leg through layers of fabric and effectively quieting him. He peels off jackets and wrappings of cloth that Richie must have draped over himself throughout the night and it makes Eddie regret not giving him a blanket before he went to bed. He must have been cold.

Richie’s mouth stays silent but his hands dart down to help, and they gingerly remove the sock from his ankle. He sucks in a breath as he pulls the hurt one up, nearly dropping it on the couch in front of Eddie.

Eddie puts his hands under Richie’s calf, and Richie jumps at the touch. Eddie figures it must hurt, so he lightens his fingers to barely a tickle as he turns the ankle over in his hands.

It’s bruised and swollen, an ugly shade of purple, and hot beneath his hands.

“Looks like a sprain,” Eddie explains, dusting his fingers over the swollen parts, searching for signs of a break. The swelling seems to mostly cover the muscle, and it’s not as bad near the bones, so Eddie figures Richie hasn’t broken it. _He’ll live to walk another day, _Eddie thinks with a giggle.

He tilts his head up and Richie is staring at him, beet-red.

“Calm down. You’re not the first person to sprain your ankle, no need to be embarrassed about it. Hell, I do it once a year out in those vines,” Eddie says with a laugh.

Richie forces out a chuckle and Eddie rolls his eyes. He never understood the deal with non-farmers. All embarrassed of injuries and overly polite about their bodies. Like it’s the weirdest thing in the world to look at yourself and admit your pain in the presence of strangers. Out here, you needed to understand the workings of your body because every day you tested it to the limits. City slickers never did, their bodies becoming nothing more than a side component of themselves, something more to decorate or to adorn, forgetting the very nature by which they allowed you to exist and to affect the world around you. Eddie understood his own body, and all of its failings. Richie clearly didn’t.

And right now, Richie’s body was covered in cuts and bruises. Open season for infection.

“Jeez, we gotta get you cleaned up,” Eddie says, and nods upwards at Richie’s face.

Richie’s hand darts up, as if forgetting how covered in blood and dirt he was. His fingers dance along his face and Eddie watches with curiosity. How could he forget how banged up he was? Did he have _any _sort of notion of himself?

Richie breaks into a smile again. “Thanks, mother dearest, but I think I’ll let it be. Makes me look tough. Like one of those gangsters, yeah?”

“No, it doesn’t. Looks like a nasty way to get an infection.”

“Nah. Makes me look like Al Capone,” Richie says with an exaggerated raise of his eyebrow.

“Yeah, sure, _Al. _But you’re getting blood all over my couch,” Eddie says, figuring it might be the only way to get Richie to listen to him.

“Oh… oh boy,” Richie says, looking down at the cracked blood that had migrated to the cotton of Eddie’s couch. “Guess I can clean myself up. Ol’ Al probably never gets his hands dirty anyways.”

“No, probably not,” Eddie laughs.

“You got a water pump out there? I can run it over my face or somethin’,” Richie says, looking out to Eddie’s rolling fields.

“How you gonna get out there? Walk?” Eddie asks, a smile on his face.

Richie laughs. “Maybe I can crawl.”

“Hey, listen. I got indoor plumbing last year. Come with me and I’ll show ya,” Eddie says. “You know, it’s a lot cleaner than outhouses, so when it got just affordable enough, I bought it first thing. I’m a hell of a lot less sick now.”

“Oh yeah? Not used to it out in these parts, farmer-boy?” Richie asks. “How cute.”

“Hey, you watch yourself, city-slicker,” Eddie says as he stands up, and offers out a hand to Richie. Richie stares at it, then looks up at Eddie, obviously confused.

Eddie rolls his eyes, and turns, instead hooking his arm around Richie’s middle and hoisting him to his feet.

Richie does go quiet, all tight-lipped and serious, as Eddie begins shuffling him to the bathroom. _Must be in pain._ So, Eddie is careful and slow as he walks with Richie, using every bit of strength he can to take the majority of the weight. It _really _doesn’t feel great with his hangover, so Eddie focuses elsewhere.

They’re both quiet, Eddie turning his focus solely to Richie beside him. He’s using extreme amounts of effort to ensure that Richie doesn’t fall or even stumble, and that Eddie himself doesn’t make a weird step and hit Richie’s ankle or something. It’s tough work, supporting Richie’s lanky figure and maneuvering him through the narrow farmhouse, but Eddie manages. He keeps an eye on Richie’s face, and feels for when he tenses in pain, so he can adjust to avoid the sore spots. It’s like a puzzle, and Eddie would be lying if he said he wasn’t enjoying mapping out Richie beneath his palm.

Once they reach the bathroom, Eddie sits Richie down on a wooden stool in the corner. Richie lands with a bony flop, and his teeth are still gritted from the walk over.

Eddie looks him over, all tense and in pain and says, “Yeah, friend. I don’t think you’ll be making it out to another train tonight.” He turns around to a cabinet retrieving a washcloth, as Richie sputters behind him.

“What do you mean? I’m fit to fly,” Richie says, gesturing his arms out widely.

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Sprained ankles take at _least _a week to heal. You walk on it before it’s ready and you could break it.” Eddie runs the washcloth under water from the sink, until it’s damp and warm.

“I can’t wait until I’m perfectly capable,” Richie says with a quiet voice. “You gotta do what-”

“Yes you can,” Eddie says, cutting Richie off, though it doesn’t really register to him what he’s offering.

Instead of pressing the matter, Eddie kneels in front of Richie and Richie stays quiet, no longer protesting.

Eddie fills the silence by asking, “So, Richie, you spend your whole life doing this?” He dabs the underside of Richie’s nose with the washcloth, cleaning off where the majority of blood had settled.

“Uh,” Richie says, his eyes still locked on Eddie’s. He darts his hand up and catches Eddie’s wrist, gently but firmly. “You don’t- uh. I’m perfectly capable of cleaning myself up.”

Eddie laughs, glancing down at the pale bony hand, holding his own tan wrist. It’s kind of a pretty sight. “You know, somehow I doubt that.”

“What? You think I made it this far without being able to?” Richie asks.

“Oh Richie. You don’t even know what a sprained ankle is. You wanted to leave the blood all on your face! You weren’t even going to do anything about the cuts,” Eddie says, laughing through his argument. This man is _ridiculous._

“Well… uh. _Listen here sonny,_” Richie starts but Eddie ignores him.

“What, are you the type to get all embarrassed, Mr. Self-Sufficient? Come on, I need to clean this blood off so I can disinfect any scratches. You ever seen a nose fall off?” Eddie says, and Richie’s hand finally falls from Eddie’s. “Anyways, my Ma was a nurse. I know how to do this,” Eddie explains as he starts cleaning the blood from Richie’s face again.

“Fine, Doctor Eds. But don’t expect to get tipped,” Richie says as his cheeks flare up.

Ignoring him, Eddie takes his time, dabbing at the blood from under Richie’s nose. Richie must have hit it and got a nosebleed at some point, considering the heavy way it had collected above his thick upper lip. Luckily, his nose didn’t look broken, but it did look a little bruised, and definitely tender.

“So, come on. What’s your story?” Eddie asks, eyes focused on Richie’s face, and taking meticulous care to wipe away the mess of blood and dirt.

“I - um. I grew up in Pittsburgh. You know where that is?” Richie asks.

“Yes, dumbass. Pennsylvania,” Eddie says.

“Alright, alright! Anyways. Did the radio out there for a while. Then, well… you know the story.”

Eddie pauses. He knew the story. “Depression?”

“Yeah,” Richie says, his eyes falling to the side. “Depression. Lost my job. Everyone did. No more jobs to be found at all. Thought I’d go west,” he says.

Eddie hums. Richie remains impossibly still, as Eddie travels the wet rag to his lips, where he must have hit and bitten them or something, because they’re lined in blood. He takes special care to dab the blood away, making sure not to hurt them any worse, and apply only enough pressure to clean them. He’s not sure he can hear Richie breathing as he works, so he figures they must be sensitive. Eddie makes sure his touch is feather-light. It’s almost fascinating, dabbing the cloth around Richie’s lips, around their curves and edges. He figures Richie has really nice lips and the thought sends a minor tightness through his stomach. _Was he jealous?_

“What are you looking for, out west?” Eddie asks, keeping his voice quiet, and distracting himself. He feels like he’s whispering a secret to Richie, but maybe it’s just because Richie is so quiet as well. “Gonna find something you couldn’t in Pittsburgh?”

Richie stays quiet, his lips still open just enough for Eddie to clean them off with the rag, and his eyes slightly crossed as they focus on Eddie’s hand. _Probably thinks he can’t speak while I do this_, Eddie figures so he pulls his hand away and sits up to look Richie in the eyes.

Richie clears his throat before he says, “The movie biz is doing great, and that’s the goal. Think I can find something there,” he says, as his eyes fall up Eddie’s face, drifting away from watching Eddie’s hands.

Eddie hums in response, satisfied with Richie’s answer before he leans back in and continues to work on Richie’s face, shifting the washcloth to the line of hair on Richie’s forehead. He moves his other hand up to pull away the black locks of hair, and Richie is frozen again.

Eddie huffs a laugh at the shyness, but continues working. He then pats the blood and dirt away, revealing a cut, and some pretty deep bruising on Richie’s forehead.

“Oh, that does _not _look good. When did you hit your head?” Eddie asks, chewing at his lips as he wipes the blood away.

“When I fell off the train. Rolled through some trees. I think I hit my head on a rock or something,” Richie explains, his voice also quiet.

“You might have a concussion. I’m gonna need to keep an eye on you,” Eddie says, thinking back to when he once got nailed in the head by a falling apple and Bill _insisted_ that Eddie sleep at his house so he and Mike could keep an eye on him, and make sure he made it through the night. “You could slip into a coma, you know,” Eddie says, brushing back Richie’s hair to get a better look at the injury.

“Never woken up in a coma before,” Richie says with a giggle.

“Nobody has dumbass. Were you this dumb before you hit your head?” Eddie laughs, his voice still gentle.

“Naw, just dumb from when I saw your face,” Richie responds, laughing even harder.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Eddie says, sitting back on his heels and staring Richie in the eyes.

Richie just winks so Eddie shakes his head and continues working, clearing away the blood from the line of his hair until he feels satisfied with his work. He sits back and looks at Richie with softness, not really able to think of what to say.

It’s Richie who breaks the silence when he says, “I think… um. I hit my ribs, too.” His voice is still so small, and blush returns to his cheeks.

Eddie blushes himself a little as well. “You’ll need to… uh. Take off your shirt.”

Richie responds immediately, like the perfect patient, pulling off his thermal shirt, revealing pale skin, marbled with bruises and tiny cuts.

Eddie blinks. Richie’s freckles, smattered on his face and one of the first things Eddie noticed about him, had extended to his chest. Tiny pinpricks scattered like a galaxy across his collarbones. They remind Eddie of looking up at the night sky after a long day of working, and seeing the otherworldly beauty bask down on him like a prayer. Eddie can’t tell why, but he feels a distant urge to count them.

Instead, he focuses on redirecting his eyes to what he was supposed to be studying, the bruises that bloomed around Richie’s middle.

“Jesus, kid. You don’t eat enough,” Eddie says as he places delicate fingertips to Richie’s ribs, feeling for the swollen sections, and searching for evidence of a break.

Richie sucks in a breath when Eddie’s fingers graze across the bend of his ribs.

“That… that didn’t feel great,” Richie says, his eyebrows still knit together from the shock of the pain.

“Sorry,” Eddie says, as he leans in, narrowing his eyes to find the source of the swelling, so he won’t hurt Richie with his fingers, which still lingered on the front of Richie’s chest. His breathing feels deeper, like he’s focusing, and he absently wonders if Richie can feel it on his chest.

“You might have cracked something,” Eddie says, his face still close to Richie’s middle. “Boy did you really do a number on yourself. Got any sense for self-preservation, _at all_?” Eddie asks, before leaning back and returning to the washcloth to clean up the scratches from across Richie’s chest.

Richie’s mouth falls open even wider as he barks out, “I do! Hey, remember. Like I said. I made it this far,” Richie says. “And you’ll have to show me how you do all that.”

“Why?” Eddie asks.

“Well, so you won’t have to do it next time. And for, you know, when I fall off a moving train again,” Richie says quickly.

“You leaving soon? On that ankle?” Eddie asks, his voice a little tight. This idiot is really tempting fate. He’ll get _hurt _again. Even worse, maybe. If he leaves.

“I just… I don’t wanna be a burden on you and your farm,” Richie says as his eyes fall down to his hands.

“You’re not,” Eddie says. “Listen… I got lucky. My farm is doing fine. I can support a layabout for a week or two. Plus, like I said. I’m a Christian. It’s my duty.”

Richie looks up with a smile so bright that Eddie feels winded.

“You’re not gonna let me convince you otherwise, huh?” Richie asks.

Eddie shakes his head.

Richie takes a deep breath and says, “Thank you. Please, let me know if there’s a way I can pay you back. You can have my watch… and I have some books I could give you. Can’t be sure you’d like them-”

Eddie laughs and cuts him off. “I don’t need that. Listen, the Depression hit us all. Some more than others and I don’t mind extending my good luck. Besides, it’s good practice for me, getting to clean up your injuries.”

With a rush of movement, Richie leans forward and grabs Eddie’s hands, his face only a foot away from Eddie’s, with wide open, pleading eyes.

“Thank you. Thank you, Eddie,” Richie says, his blue eyes swimming like the ocean.

“You’re welcome,” Eddie says, as he pulls away, heat crawling up his back, getting too close for comfort. “Just uh… feel free to use the bath. I disinfected your cuts, but… well you’re dirty as hell, man.”

Richie laughs. “You one of those neat freaks?”

Eddie quirks an eyebrow. “You wanna sleep in the barn with the rest of the animals?”

“You have animals on your farm?” Richie asks, and his face is like a child’s, all excitement and starry-eyes.

“No, it’s just an expression,” Eddie says.

“Damn. Thought I could play with some goats or something.”

“You’re a weirdo, you know that?” Eddie asks.

“Weird enough to make it in the movie business?”

Eddie just rolls his eyes. “I’ll get your sack for you. I’m guessing you’ll have some extra clothing in there?”

“I do. Can’t attest to its cleanliness, though,” Richie says.

“Gross. Well, maybe your first way of paying me back can be doing some laundry. Starting with your own clothing. If you feel up to it, that is.”

“I’d love to do your dirty laundry, Eds.”

“Would ya stop calling me that?” Eddie responds, cause he feels like he has to.

“Maybe,” Richie says with a smile, and Eddie can’t help but hope that he’ll never stop calling him that. He’d never had a nickname before, not since his mother. And those weren’t nicknames… they were closer to pet names.

But Eddie doesn’t feel like a pet now. He feels warmth. Warmth toward Richie, warmth toward his situation. He feels in control, like he can handle anything that gets thrown his way. He feels capable. Sheltered, maybe. But that could change, too.

.

A few hours later, after Eddie had given Richie his bag, dug up an old cane for him to hobble around with, and had given him the necessary components for laundry, Eddie was working on his pumpkins and asking himself exactly how he had gotten here.

With the clarity of about 100 yards away from this dark-haired stranger, Eddie was wondering if he had been making the right decisions. Everything about what he had done did feel right, and he wasn’t under the impression that he had made mistakes by helping Richie. But he had been so quick to offer his couch, so quick to tend to his injuries, to trust his story, and had been quickest to offer his home and welcome Richie to stay with him.

Everything Eddie had told Richie about why he was doing this _had _been true. He had extra money, just enough to feed an extra mouth for about a month. It _was _harvest season, which is when Eddie usually had some extra change lying around. He usually saved it up, or spent it on fancy bread or fish to share with Bill. But, he could use it on Richie. To help Richie. He didn’t necessarily _have _to save it up. Even if it meant putting himself in a bit more of a strain for the colder months. He could manage through the icy winter, until the next harvest season when the warmth of spring broke through like budding tulips. Sure, Eddie could afford this.

Eddie was lucky. He knew that. Very, very lucky. His town hadn’t been hit too bad, Eddie spared even more. He shared that good fortune with Bill, even though Bill was getting by just fine by selling his hooch under the table to the local Speakeasy that was much less secret than Eddie figured was normal. So yeah, Eddie wants to share his luck. It eases his guilt. Guilt that tore him up at night, when he would listen to the radio talking about people starving to death across the country, uprooted from their homes, covered in dust. The stories left his stomach in knots that never truly went away.

So in comes Richie, poor, bloody, and broken, and Eddie feels like the job of helping him out, helping him land back on his feet, isn’t the _worst _thing he could do. Besides, Richie was interesting. A traveller from the East, probably having seen more of the country than Eddie could ever hope to imagine. Maybe Richie would regale him with tales of life on the move, a transient existence. Unlike Eddie’s very stationary, very simple life. Richie probably knew so much, probably knew facts about the world, wisdom of life, stories of love and hate. Maybe Richie had been in a fight before. Eddie never had, only ever having been beaten up by bigger kids when he was younger. Maybe he could get Richie to tell him about his experiences.

Not to mention, Eddie didn’t mind taking care of Richie. Where Richie’s wisdom of the world ended, Eddie’s began, with his knowledge of household fixes and practicality. Eddie could fix up Richie’s scratches and bruises, could understand the workings of his bones beneath his skin, and how to tend to them, like he tended to the vegetables in his fields. Yeah, Eddie could offer something too, and he wanted to share this wisdom with Richie. He wanted to impress him.

Eddie hadn’t felt this fascinated by a person since he first met Bill, and even that was different. He had been _obsessed _with Bill, in the way one would be obsessed with an older brother, cool and collected, someone Eddie wanted to love and protect. No, what he felt for Richie was more akin to how you feel about the neighbor. A camaraderie. A sense of balance. He felt balanced with Richie.

The work in the fields was meditative, and it opened up more doors to memories of last night. He remembered a relief as he went to sleep, and a hope. But what it was about was lost on him. It had something to do with an answer, but Eddie couldn’t remember the question. Oh well. He’d remember it. Eventually, he’s sure.

It’s about noon when Eddie finally allows himself to go inside, dark clouds having settled over the plains, sending goosebumps along his arms under his flannel and telling him to take a break. It’ll be a bit early for his lunch, but that’s alright. He’s waited long enough.

Eddie grabs some of the ripe and shiny vegetables that he had just harvested before he heads back inside, the October wind shuffling him along. Leaves scurried around his boots, heading in the direction of his farmhouse, squat and secure against the landscape, white shutters waving in the wind. Eddie can tell that no rain will break, a farmer’s intuition. Just a little cold.

Richie is laying back on the couch, the dirt and blood scrubbed from his face, and Eddie is relieved to finally see the person underneath it all. Shiny and raw, Richie is reading a book, thumbing the pages and tapping his foot, with damp black curls hanging loose around his pale face, the candlelight spinning cold in their inky black.

Richie jolts when he notices Eddie watching him from the doorway.

“How are the fields today, farmer Eds?” Richie asks, a smile already pulling at his lips.

“They’re just fine. It’s lunchtime now,” Eddie explains as he crosses the living room to the kitchen, biting back a smile at his own curtness, only once he’s sure Richie can’t see. He likes messing with him.

He hears the scramble as Richie gets to his feet, and the unmistakable clumsy knocking of the cane.

“I _was _getting pretty hungry,” Richie says. “You mind if I eat with you? I have some canned beans, and they’re just about the worst when you have to eat them alone.”

Eddie laughs and turns around, to Richie who looks winded as he tries to keep up with Eddie’s pace walking toward the kitchen.

“No,” Eddie says, and bites back the giggle rising up his throat.

Richie’s eyes go wide and he barely croaks out an, “_Oh.”_

“No, because you’ll be eating _with _me, and I’ll be cooking you some vegetables instead. That canned shit is _not _good for you,” Eddie explains as he turns around toward the kitchen and heads to the sink to wash off the vegetables.

“Ya got me there. Good chucks, I gotta say,” Richie says, as he hobbles to the dining table and collapses in a noisy heap.

Eddie smiles and gets to cooking, a task he does best in silence. He knows Richie is watching him, and can’t help but enjoy it. He feels like an actor, and throws in flairs as he cooks. He can’t help it. The idea that Richie would be impressed by him is addictively tantalizing. So he falls into it, sneaking only tiny glances over his shoulder, always finding Richie watching, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. Every time it sends a shock through Eddie’s core. That anyone could be impressed by him is still a foreign concept, even with Bill’s encouragement. Richie being impressed… well it’s a whole other thing entirely.

“That smells amazing,” Richie says.

“Thanks,” Eddie responds, his heart brimming at Richie’s compliment. “I know my way around vegetables.

“You know your way around a lot of things?” Richie asks and Eddie feels his heart skip a beat.

His ears go hot and his face goes red. Was it a joke? Was Richie making fun of him, trying to embarrass him? Or was it honest? Was he actually asking, because he expects the answer to be yes? Eddie figures he better joke along. If Richie can tell just how much Eddie was fascinated by him… well he didn’t want to scare him off.

He turns around and faces Richie with his whole body, and, leaning against the counter, bites back, “Yeah, I do. Got anything in mind?” He’ll take the challenge, and pass with flying colors.

With that, Richie flushes red, and smiles back, a lopsided smile, before saying, “I can tell. Can’t wait to see what else you know.”

It sends a shiver down Eddie’s front. Richie _wasn’t _joking. He was impressed by Eddie. It makes Eddie’s heart soar.

“You know, I was just thinking, it will be nice having you around for a bit. Big ol’ farm. Gets kinda lonely. Had some seasonal workers back in June. Kinda similar to you, hopping from town to town. But they’re more local, staying in Nevada. I see them every year, and it’s always nice,” Eddie explains.

“So you’re saying it’s just you living on this farm? No wife?” Richie asks.

Eddie laughs. “No, sir. Had a fiance about seven years ago, back when I was 23. Didn’t quite work out,” Eddie says, hoping Richie won’t press.

“Why’s that?”

Eddie turns away. He brought it up, so he can’t hold it against Richie for asking, but when he thinks back to Myra… it never leaves him feeling right. Always feels like a question he couldn’t answer. Memories of fights, accusations, and the storm of separation flood his mind, and he reaches for an eloquent way to describe it.

“We just… in the end… we spoke different languages,” Eddie says, hoping Richie might be satisfied enough by the answer to not continue to ask. Eddie sets down the two plates of sauteed vegetables and begins to eat.

Richie nods, but his eyebrows are furrowed, like he didn’t understand Eddie’s answer. Or maybe, he understood it too well. But he doesn’t say anything, and instead begins to eat. Eddie watches with deep satisfaction when Richie’s eyes nearly roll back in his head with his first bite. It’s a fluid motion, and Eddie wonders if Richie does that often. What else can make Richie do that.

“Wow! Eddie _Spah-get-tee!_ Delicious! Delicioso!” Richie says with such energy that Eddie worries about him being able to stay off his ankle.

Eddie laughs. “Thanks.”

“Seriously, it’s been too long since I’ve had a meal like this,” Richie says.

“All you eat are canned beans?” Eddie asks.

“No. I eat home-cooked meals, sometimes. When I stay in a town and do work, sometimes I’ll get something warm, not from a can. Not often though.”

Eddie’s heart hurts a little at the thought. He’d never let someone like Richie go hungry. “How long have you been travelling?”

Richie shrugs. “Just about a year. I’ve stayed a few times this summer, in towns for work and all. Makes the trip longer, but I gotta earn some money if I want to eat. Anyway, there’s always at least a farmer or two who needs a helping hand.”

“You must have seen a lot of the country,” Eddie says, eager to talk about it. Learn about it.

“Oh you bet,” Richie responds.

“I’m jealous,” Eddie admits, but feels guilty for it. Did it sound like he was spurning his luck? Would Richie realize it was admiration of him, not ignorance of his own fortune?

“You travel much?” Richie asks, and there’s no tone of annoyance. Maybe Richie understood him, then.

“Not at all,” Eddie says.

“Well, it’s beautiful. The country and all,” Richie says, and his eyes travel around, stirring up memories that Eddie wants to crack open and reach his hands in.

“I can only imagine,” Eddie says. “I’ve always wanted to travel.”

“Well, now might not be the best time,” Richie says.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Might be pretty but the country is some shit right now.”

“The Depression?” Eddie asks, but knows the answer.

“Yeah. Destroyed the whole damn country. Those fucking stockbrokers. Wiped it out for everyone. Man, I’ll tell ya. You know, I get where they were coming from. Those parties _were _fun. But still. Not worth this. Not fucking worth this at all.”

“You partied with them? Like in those crazy parties? Like The Great Gatsby?” Eddie asks.

Richie laughs. “Yeah, I spent some time in those circles. Didn’t have that kind of money, like the kind they needed to _throw _the parties, but for some reason they were of the thought that I was funny enough to let join in. Let me hang around a few of them. Gave me alcohol and drugs. Plenty fun and plenty generous, but, I’ll tell ya, ain’t ever seen crazier people.”

“Wow. I can’t imagine what it would be like partying with people like that. I mean, I read about it, in that book. But to actually be there? The furthest I’ve seen is just about the borders of this state. That and the local Speakeasy.”

“Hey, Eds, it’s not all it’s chalked up to be. I’ve never had worse hangovers, and the drugs you do there? Well, just about half of those people are addicted. Ain’t got any idea on life but the lifestyle of the rich and famous. It’s all they damn knew. And now? New money folks? Got nothin’. I tell ya, you’re better than all of them combined, and I haven’t even known ya for a full day.”

Eddie blushes and knocks his head down, away from Richie’s gaze. “That’s neat, Richie. Thanks.”

Richie smiles at him. “Those days are long gone, anyways. But, hey. I think prohibition is on its way out.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah! That was the rumor going around before I got r- uh. Before I got laid off and left town,” Richie says in a scrambled way that makes Eddie think he’s omitting something. It bugs Eddie, but he figures trying to pry it out of Richie won’t do any good. Nor would it be very gracious of him as a host and all.

“Well, my friend Bill would be happy about that. He has a vineyard, a few miles away. Selling under the table isn’t quite as profitable for him as back when it was legal.”

“Is that where you were coming from last night, Eds? I knew you were drunk! You looked so cute all boozed up,” Richie says, and reaches out to ruffle Eddie’s hair. The intimacy is shocking and Eddie is reminded that he only _just _met Richie. But, he doesn’t hate it.

“Yeah yeah. Watch yourself, kid. Flattery ain’t getting you any extra helpings,” Eddie says, in a way that’s already so similar to Richie. Talking like him, trying him on for size. Familiar.

“Man, it’s been a while since I’ve had a drink,” Richie says, ignoring Eddie’s comment, instead gazing away into the kitchen. “All my money has gone to food as of late. Not to mention, people just aren’t that generous with their booze. Not anymore. Not like in Pittsburgh. Or the city,” Richie says.

“Yeah, I’m lucky that Bill is such a pal,” Eddie says, and beams at the thought of his friend. “I mean, I give him extra produce in return when he gives me wine. It’s a good arrangement. But I’m still lucky and all.”

“Seems like you two are close,” Richie says, his eyes still lingering away from Eddie’s.

“Oh, you bet. Known him for the last ten years. He’s smart, smarter than anyone I’ve ever known.”

Richie laughs, an airy, empty laugh, and it doesn’t reach his eyes. Instead, he casts a sideways look at Eddie and says, “Sounds like a good guy.”

“He is. Hey, maybe I can get him to send over some wine! We could have it with dinner tonight or tomorrow or something. Then you could meet him,” Eddie says. But once the words leave his mouth he already regrets it. Though he’d love Richie to get to meet Bill, it comes with the side-effect of Bill meeting Richie. Which means that Bill would know what he’s doing. Having a stranger in his house, giving him food, washing his wounds. Eddie doesn’t know how to explain why he’s doing what he’s doing, so he kind of hopes to just avoid it all together.

But Richie is beaming and saying, “That would be great! Oh, I’d love ya, Eds.”

Eddie feels suddenly very warm to his stomach. “Well, maybe in exchange for some work or something. Or maybe I could just go pick it up later today. Something… something like that.”

“Yeah, of course! I’ll do whatever ya need. Well, that is… whatever I can manage, with my ankle all sprained up.”

“How was the laundry?” Eddie asks, eager to change the subject.

“Not bad at all,” Richie says. “I washed it and laid it around your tub. You might have to hang it outside if you want it to properly dry and all. But I got it all set up for ya.”

“I can do that. Maybe you could do some polishing for me. I have some silverware that’s just about as dull as you can get.”

“Oh, so you’re a rich guy, huh? Meanwhile all starry eyed at some fancy yorkers. What, Eds, you got old money out here?”

Eddie laughs, hard. “No. Trust me. No money, you dummy. They were my mother’s.”

“Your nurse mother’s?”

“No, my other one. Yes, that one,” Eddie says and laughs deep to his stomach.

“I can do that for your dear mother,”

“I’m sure she’ll turn in her grave in appreciation,” Eddie says.

Richie laughs, and in the motion, his hand drifts toward Eddie’s knee, as he stabilizes himself. It lingers for just a second, and Eddie can’t help but focus on it, the motion so raw, so strong. He doesn’t want Richie to take his hand away, ever.

But, eventually, he does, as Richie straightens up and takes a deep breath. Eddie is struck too quiet to continue to joke again, and instead watches Richie, and admires the blush that ghosts around his freckles, like clouds against stars in the night sky. Eddie wishes he could look like that, he likes it so much. There’s something about the way Richie looks, a lingering smile, eyes bright and intelligent, rosy red cheeks, that makes Eddie want to stare at him, just to enjoy the feeling of looking.

Richie looks up and catches Eddie staring but Eddie doesn’t pull away his gaze, despite the fear it strikes through his heart. It’s like he wants Richie to know how much he admires him. He wants Richie to understand, so Richie might offer it back.

But what Richie says is, “I can clean up the dishes. If I stand on one foot, I’m sure I can manage.”

_Wrong._ “Oh boy, no. I’m not having you make your ankle worse and adding weeks to your healing process,” Eddie says, as if that’s the problem.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be a good patient, Dr. Eds,” Richie responds with a smile.

“I’ll take care of the dishes. Then I’ll set you up with some more laundry,” Eddie says, standing up and clearing away the table.

Richie watches him, before saying, “It’s a deal, Eddie Spaghetti.”

.

The rest of the day is horribly boring to Eddie. He can’t focus on the repetition of harvesting when Richie is still in his house. It’s like Richie is a frenzied pull of static electricity, and everything else is dull soft wood. He just wants to go back inside and talk to Richie, watch him move, understand him and his infinite appeal. Even when the sun falls below the Nevada plains, and the silver Autumn moon casts a shiny metal glow to Eddie’s fields, a sight that normally warrants quiet contemplation, the only things on Eddie’s mind are freckles and curls.

So, eventually, he figures that the cold of the night is enough to send anybody inside, and he turns away from his work, blaming the icing of his nose and the catching of his lungs to be the culprits that pull him back to the warmth of the house and the presence of strangers. Besides, he’s tired, and his muscles are sore and he could use a long bath, or a long talk. Whichever comes first.

When he does enter his farmhouse, glowing with the orange light of fire, he spots Richie dozing, head cocked against the arm of the couch, at what looks like a pretty bad angle. Eddie realizes that Richie needs a proper bed.

“Rich?” Eddie asks with a quiet voice, and Richie stirs, his eyes lighting brighter than the fire when they settle on Eddie.

“Back so soon? _Ma dear Paddy, returnin’ from de potato fields, staving off dis famine,”_ Richie says in some horrible and gimmicky Irish voice.

“Oh God, what is _that _supposed to be?” Eddie asks.

“_Why, it’s nothin’ but me impression o’ God’s greatest people. De Irish. De Green blood dat runs through our golden contreh,” _Richie says, flailing his arms about manically.

“I hate it,” Eddie says, but he doesn’t, and his cheeks betray him as they drag his mouth into a smile.

“_I don’ believe ya, Eds,_” Richie says with a giggle.

“Well you oughta. Now cut it out, cause I’m showing you to my spare room. That way you can sleep on an actual bed. Better for your ankle, and all,” Eddie says as he begins picking up Richie’s things, and walking down the hall to a small bedroom at the back of the house.

“Eddie, you’re too nice to me,” Richie says, as he hobbles to his feet with support from the cane. “I can’t accept this.”

Eddie lights a gas lamp in the back room, and flickering light brings it to life. “Don’t you mention it. Room’s just collecting dust anyways,” Eddie says.

The room is small, quite small. A single bed, a squat little chair in the corner, and a half-sized dresser are all that compose it. That and the gas-lamp on the dresser that offers meager light. During the day, the window lets in sunlight, but at night the room looks small, and almost lonely, just white sheets and ashy wood. The room doesn’t see a lot of takers, the only exception being Bill, on the nights when he and Eddie drink too much for Bill to make the journey home. Otherwise, it’s totally unoccupied. An empty shell in the back of the house reminding Eddie that he has no family. That he lives alone. Sometimes, Eddie fears the ghost of his mother lives here, watching over him, a threatening presence. Maybe Richie will bring some life to the room.

When Richie does enter it, he immediately falls down on the bed, and Eddie swears he looks about ten years older. A part of Eddie fears it’s the ghost of his mother, possessing Richie and snuffing out the light in a jealous and cold calculation.

“Thank you, Eddie,” Richie says. “Can’t even say how long it’s been since I’ve slept on a proper bed. Not that I don’t mind train cars and hay, but ya know… it gets a bit scratchy,” Richie says with a tired laugh.

Eddie’s heart immediately begins to hurt. He doesn’t want to think about Richie sleeping on train cars, in constant danger, not knowing where his next meal would come from. Even if he had just met him, Eddie feels like he’s known him forever. He’s worried for him for eons. Cared for him for lifetimes. He doesn’t want him in this kind of situation again.

“Well, this room is yours while you get better,” Eddie says. “And sleep as long as you need. It will help the healing process.”

“Oh _dank you darlin’. For all your goodness an’ kindness, I’ll give ya a big ol’ kiss. A bit o’ de luck o’ de Irish,_” Richie says.

Eddie feels himself waiting, his chest all tight and expectant. It’s too much to think about Richie kissing him for some reason, even though Richie was just joking around. Richie shouldn’t make dumb jokes like that anyway. They made Eddie sweat and his heart hammer. They were really stupid.

“Shut your mouth, you ass,” Eddie says, but he laughs as he says it.

“Don’t like my impressions? They made me famous back in Pittsburgh, I’ll have you know,” Richie says, leaning back on the bed.

“Now that just seems like a bold faced lie,” Eddie says, and sits down next to Richie, his legs sore and tired from working in the fields.

The bed is small, so he ends up only a few inches from Richie’s legs. He’s not really used to sitting this closely to people, and it sets off a buzzing in the space between them, a vibration so deep it sends goosebumps along Eddie’s arms. A buzzing that’s daring him to close the space, just to quiet it. He tries to ignore it, and figures it must be how you feel with friends. It’s how he felt with Bill, a while ago, when they just started being friends. He might not have felt it with Myra, but that was different. The buzzing here though, it’s tenfold.

Maybe Richie feels it too, because he’s silent. _Nah. That’s too hopeful. Richie has had loads of friends. Unlike Eddie._

“Are you hungry?” Eddie asks.

“Honestly? I’m exhausted. Just sitting on this bed has got me all weary,” Richie says.

“You’re not just saying that because you don’t want me feeding you?” Eddie asks.

“Nah, Eds. I’d never give up your cooking,” Richie says and winks at Eddie.

Eddie blushes and turns his face away so Richie can’t see.

“Anyways, you and me, we got an arrangement. I just did all your sweaty laundry,” Richie says. “Don’t feel bad having you feed me no more.”

“Alright, alright. But you’re eating tomorrow. Gotta take care of yourself,” Eddie says.

“How can I repay the favor for tomorrow’s meal?” Richie asks, and leans forward, his body suddenly much closer than it had been.

The buzzing gets stronger and Eddie begins to wonder if he can actually hear it.

“Uh. Well. How about you tell me a story. From your time on the road?” Eddie asks. “If jabbering on the radio was your job and all. Go ahead and prove it.”

“A story, huh?” Richie says. “Let me think.” His features twist up as he looks to the sky, and Eddie takes his chance to fully stare at Richie. Sharp cheekbones and full pink lips. Dark hair that rests on pale skin. So beautiful. So pretty. Eddie wants to look like that. Eddie wants that.

“Oh, I got something _chuckalicious_. Okay, listen up. I spent some time on this farm. ‘Bout two months ago. Shitty old farm, but they needed help. Big old corn field, and they wanted a few of us seasonal workers to slave away in it, harvesting up corn and bringing it back. The pay was absolute shit and the weather was terrible, but I was outta money. Man, that month was nothing but heat and sweat. I’ll tell ya, Eds, I’ve _never _smelled worse.”

Eddie laughs and Richie smiles.

“So anyways, the farmer? He’s this absolute ass. He doesn’t give a damn about his workers. Especially not us. His fields were the worst I’ve ever seen, too. Cornfield was nothing but a maze, and just about every day I swear we’d come back one less than we had in the morning. Fuck they’re all probably still in there, chewing on rotton corn and calling out for their mothers. It was _miserable._ Then this farmer? He comes around and refuses to learn our names. Calls us by whatever feature he thinks was most prominent on us. Can you guess what mine was, Eds?”

“Freckles?” Eddie asks, then blushes. _Shit. _

Richie just smiles. “No. Mine was Honker. For my big ol’ schnozz.”

Eddie laughs and looks at Richie’s nose. He loves it too.

“Well, he goes up and down calling me Honker and yelling at me every day. Only stopped callin’ me honker when he decided to trade it for the equally creative _Trashmouth._ This fuckin’ asshole. I’m tellin’ ya, I didn’t go a single day without getting absolutely scolded by this motherfucker. Treated me like a child, Eddie. Once, he went absolutely _insane_ because I didn’t wash my face in the mornin’! Can ya believe that?”

“Sounds like a jerk,” Eddie says.

“He fuckin’ was. But get this. He had this chicken,” Richie starts.

“Okay…”

“Well here I was, damn sick of him and damn sick of this farm. I got so damn sick of it that on the last day, I snuck into his barn, where he kept this prize chicken. Listen, this man _loved _his chicken. Was his favorite goddamned thing. He spent all summer talking about how it was the _prize rooster_ of all of Tennessee. I swear, you’d think they had intimate relations.”

Eddie scrunches up his nose in disgust, but continues to listen.

“He was gonna enter it in the county fair at the end of August. He’d brag up and down all day, while _we_ slaved away picking his fuckin’ corn for him. Alls he’d talk about was this damn rooster and how it was worth more than all of us combined. So you know what I did, Eddie, my love?”

Eddie shakes his head.

“I stole the damn thing. Stole it in the middle of the night, shoved it into my bag and booked it to the trains. Sold it about two towns over, once I crossed state lines, and took that money and bought myself a damn warm scarf, so I could protect my big ol’ honker from the wind.”

“You’re joking! That farmer could have killed you if he caught you!” Eddie says, knowing his eyes are like absolute moons on his face, and not caring.

“I’d like to see that asshole try. He was nothing but a potbelly on sticks. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat” Richie says and laughs, loudly.

“That’s incredible. I’d never be so brave to do something like that,” Eddie says.

“I think you would be. I mean, hell, you took in a stranger like me. That’s pretty brave and all considerin’ how dangerous I look.”

Eddie smiles. “You didn’t seem like much of a threat.”

“Oh yeah? Not afraid of me, Eds?”

“Not at all,” Eddie says, and heat runs through his stomach.

“Well you should be. I can be pretty scary if I get mad. Even ol’ Teddy Roosevelt couldn’t hold a match to me!” Richie says, knocking his arms up like a fighter. Once again, he just looks more like a rabbit.

“Oh sure, big guy. I’m shaking in my boots,” Eddie says.

“I mean it! That farmer? He’s probably still out there looking for me. I hope one day he finds me, just so I can show him what's what,” Richie says.

“Well, I hope he doesn’t. I’d like to see your face healing, not getting any worse,” Eddie says.

“Even my big ol’ honker?” Richie asks and taps against his nose.

“Yeah, even that ugly thing,” Eddie says, but smiles the whole time. “I like your face the way it is. Don’t want it all busted up.”

“Aw, Eds. My face feels the same way,” Richie says, but his voice is quieter now. With a big sigh, he flops back onto the bed, away from Eddie, and Eddie already misses the proximity.

As if sensing it, Richie hoists up on his elbows, so he’s closer, but the motion knocks his curls into his eyes.

Without thinking absolutely not even a little bit, not even in the slightest, Eddie reaches up and pushes the curl away from Richie’s face, tucking it behind his ear.

Richie goes red-cheeked and wide-eyed and Eddie realizes he made a mistake. Maybe it was the lingering familiarity of cleaning off Richie’s face earlier that made him do it. Or maybe it was the conversation they had been having, and the idea of Richie’s face being so fresh in Eddie’s mind. Or, maybe it was something else altogether.

Whatever it was, Eddie doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to talk about it, instead coughing to clear his throat and his mind of the Richie-fog. He stands up, says, “Sleep well, Rich,” and walks off.

Richie just nods at him as Eddie leaves the room, his stomach so full of butterflies that he knows he won’t be able to eat. He walks to the bathroom instead, lamenting his mother and her overbearing control that prevented him from ever learning how to interact with someone in a way that didn’t absolutely destroy him. He got better when he moved in with his aunt, though she was no perfect parent to him, either. He grew in loneliness, understanding his best companion to be himself, and safe in the bubble of belief in the threat of the outside world. But when he wanted to reach out and grab it, burst through like a swimmer, breaching the tension that holds him back? He didn’t know the language.

So he picks up the clothing, soggy but clean, and goes outside to hang it from clothing lines. He focuses on the repetitive work, the ticking motions, the quiet night that breeds his thoughts internal. The glow from the house gives him just enough light to see, but enough darkness to hide and to think.

He had never felt such a pull as he did for Richie. It grabbed him like a lasso, tightening with every movement, and felt all consuming desire to orbit Richie, a moon to his sun. Eddie’s so fascinated, so obsessed, that he can’t think straight when he’s around Richie. He becomes a flustering mess, doing weird things like tucking Richie’s hair behind his ear, or making fun of him just so he can see that blush scatter across his cheekbones.

Eddie thinks Richie is adventure, if adventure boiled itself down and manifested as a person. He’s brave, and smart, and clever in ways Eddie only dreamed about. Eddie’s almost jealous, but those feelings are pale in comparison to the heat of admiration, the singing heat of affection and interest. It’s all consuming. Richie was like a character out of a book, Robin Hood or Prince Arthur. And Eddie was a simple man, just lucky that Richie had stumbled his way onto his farm. Eddie wanted him to stay forever, just so Eddie could learn more about him, understand his view of the world, break from the sheltered cage he had built around himself.

With a heave, Eddie finishes hanging up the rest of the clothing to dry in the cold October night, before he walks back into the house, eats a bit of bread and butter, and tucks himself into bed, cold and alone.

.

Foggy light illuminates the kitchen the next morning while Eddie is cooking breakfast, oats and grits, when Richie limps through the doorway, crumpled pajamas, messy hair, and sleepy eyes. Eddie’s heart skips a beat at the sight, and he figures it’s a reminder of vulnerability, a poison laced concept he doesn’t like to think about for too long.

Eddie turns his face away, hiding the rising color on his cheeks, and holding back his childlike admiration. “Sleep well?” he asks, despite the unrelenting smile growing on his face.

“Can’t tell ya how great I slept, Eds. All thanks to you,” Richie says, his words floating toward Eddie like a balloon.

“Good. I’m glad. I made some breakfast for us,” Eddie says, savoring the way _us _sounds. He doesn’t get to use it often.

“On one condition,” Richie says, falling down in a chair by the table.

“Oh, you’re giving me conditions now?” Eddie asks.

“You bet your ass I am! Here it is: I need to help you more. I’m feeling like a layabout. When I’m in towns, I do work. So, give me more laundry. Or, hell, anything I can do without making my ankle worse and getting a talking-to from Doctor Eds. Give me a way I can make money so I can pay you back. Please,” Richie says.

Eddie hums, knowing that he’d never want Richie to pay him at this point. Hell, his company was payment enough. “There’s not much you can do. Not with your ankle like that,” Eddie says as he walks over and hands Richie the oatmeal.

“Just think about it,” Richie says, and Eddie agrees that he will.

.

When Eddie returns for lunch, he’s come up with an idea.

Richie is sitting on the couch, basking in the warm afternoon sunlight, like a cat in a sunspot, and his hair is a tapestry of color. A book rests on his lap, but he’s fidgeting with his clothing, with his fingernails. When Eddie bounds through the door, Richie alights like a firework and all attention toward the book is gone.

“I’ve got it!” Eddie says, and Richie beams.

Eddie runs into the hall and pulls out an old chest, filled to the brim with long forgotten balls of yarn, and dusty pairs of knitting needles. They were all his, back from when he used to help out his parents on the farm, without being able to do any actual manual labor. He would knit little scarves and blankets during the winter when they didn’t have any crops to sell, and his parents would bring the finished goods to the farmers market, selling them for barely their cost in labor, and bring home Eddie a small block of chocolate. Even the memory sends Eddie’s mouth watering. Those were the best days of his childhood. Days where his mother saw him as capable, not a frail little bird, hers for the fussing over.

He didn’t do it anymore. It was hard, exhausting work, and the work he did on the field busted his fingers up enough without making him have to pinch and squeeze at yarn. It only ever made a few extra bucks anyway. But, it doesn’t require legs or feet, and Richie needed something to do.

“You know how to knit?” Eddie asks, bringing over the chest of supplies.

Richie laughs, deep to his stomach. “Uh, yeah, no. Never done that.”

“It’s easy,” Eddie says, ignoring Richie’s laughter. He sits next to him on the couch and starts it up, setting up a simple row of stitches, a motion so easy and familiar, he regrets not having done it more.

Eddie explains his way through, showing Richie the motions with slow expressive instructions, and Richie watches, with an intense focus, so opposite from the focus he was giving his book earlier. It’s an odd feeling for Eddie, having Richie watch his fingers so closely. He feels like a performer of a sort, and the attention is intoxicating.

“You got it?” Eddie asks, handing the needles to Richie, who takes them with unsteady fingers. In the motion, their fingers touch together, and it almost tickles.

Richie tries, his eyes so deep on the yarn and needles, but his fingers are all off, shaky and jittering, and he nearly drops the stitch. Eddie watches, with a pained expression, before he darts his hands in, and takes hold of Richie’s hands to steady them. Maybe Richie learns better by touch.

Eddie’s hands fall over Richie’s, and his elbow fits in the crook of Richie’s stomach, and Richie’s chin nearly graces the edge of Eddie’s shoulder. It’s closer than Eddie had ever been to another person in what feels like decades.

Under Eddie’s hands, Richie’s own are dry and rough, as Eddie guides him through a stitch. Little scars and scratches line the edges of his fingers and knuckles, some old, some fresh, tiny little details Eddie might have never caught if he had never brought himself so close to Richie. Eddie savors them. He savors the way Richie’s bones move under his skin, firm and thin, but strong and smooth. Richie’s pale skin is as cold as ice, and Eddie hopes the warmth of his own hands might change that. He wants Richie to be warm, and he has this disant feeling that he would give Richie all of his warmth if he could, however he could. He almost wants to stop knitting, to just hold Richie’s hands, heat them to the core, and keep them safe.

Guiding Richie through a stitch, Eddie begins to notice the tickle of Richie’s breath against his neck, tracing heat across his jaw, but Eddie keeps his head locked in place. It’s a weird feeling, like he wants to turn around and look Richie in his eyes, abandon the stitching, just have Richie watch him, stare at him, take him in. He wants Richie to just _notice _him. To know him.

With another stitch, Eddie figures it might be getting excessive, holding Richie’s fingers in place, guiding them along, but the last thing he wants is to pull his hands away. He wants this moment to last forever, wants to sit here and knit with Richie until they knit a blanket big enough to cover all of Nevada. He needs Richie to figure out the stitching… he needs Richie to take the time to learn. Eddie needs to figure it out.

When Eddie says, “How… How’s uh, that feel?” his voice is throaty and foreign. “Think-uh, that you understand?” Eddie doesn’t dare turn his head, his eyes too heavy, too focused on the needles.

Richie takes in a deep breath behind him, and air flows across Eddie’s neck, and when Richie says, “No, not yet. Uh… can you, uh, keep goin’?” it seems like he’s maybe even closer than he was, maybe only inches from the back of Eddie’s neck. Eddie should be uncomfortable with the proximity, but he isn’t. Not at all. Richie’s fingers feel like electricity. It’s like Eddie’s body missed being touched. So he keeps going.

Eddie knits another stitch, hands tight on Richie’s, and, overwhelmed by the heat in his stomach, the blood rushing through his body, the glaze settling over his eyes, he shifts in his seat. Just a little movement. But the shift knocks him back, and in that motion, in that microscopic movement, Richie’s mouth grazes the side of Eddie’s neck, right at the crook where it meets his shoulder. Eddie’s eyes roll back in his head when he feels Richie’s lips, chapped but warm, and the slightest bit wet. Somehow, feeling them against him isn’t a surprise, but just another answer. Eddie doesn’t pull away. Richie doesn’t pull his lips away. They linger against Eddie’s neck, not moving, just there, as simple as a fact of being, like water falls from the sky, people get old, and Richie’s lips rest on Eddie’s neck. Eddie freezes.

_Oh. This._

Then, in the stillness, Eddie feels the tiniest movement, almost invisible, almost undetectable, but just enough for Eddie’s senses, which have been on hyper-alert ever since he sat next to Richie in the first place, as Richie presses forward. He puts the slightest bit of pressure against Eddie’s neck. It’s not a grazing touch or an accidental brush of skin. It’s full of purpose, the smallest, tiniest, most beautiful purpose. Eddie leans back, pushing his neck back into Richie as well, without actively trying, but as if his body has decided for him, and he hears Richie draw in a breath.

Suddenly, the screaming shrill ring of a phone bursts through the moment, and in the surprise, Eddie drops Richie’s hands and leaps forward. “Excuse me,” he coughs, and shoots away from the living room, trying to escape the fog, the upending of his world, the confusing sickness reeling through his body because he realizes that what he wanted from Richie was all of him. Not just stories, not just attention, not just someone to talk with. He wanted every bit of Richie, his lips, his skin, his body pressed against Eddie’s. It’s a feeling so foreign, so confusing, so overwhelming that Eddie wonders if he’s going to faint. What would his mother think?

So he does his best to ignore the heat in his stomach, the goosebumps flayed across his neck, the tingling in his chest, as he books it to the ringing phone.

“Hello?” Eddie asks into the receiver, sounding more breathless than he means.

“Eddie! Wuh-where have y-y-you b-b-b-been?” Bill asks on the other side of the line.

“Oh, Bill. What do you mean?” Eddie asks, hoping the shaking in his voice won’t give away what he was just doing, leaning into the kiss of another man.

“Y-y-you haven’t c-c-called since you left my f-f-fuh-farm the other n-night.”

Eddie purses his lips together, knowing Bill is right. “I’ve been working, Bill,” Eddie reasons. He gulps. He doesn’t like lying to Bill, or lying-by-omission as his mother used to accuse him of doing, but he doesn’t want to tell Bill about Richie either. He doesn’t want to reveal that he let a stranger into his house. Doesn’t want to reveal the way Richie makes him feel, or the fact that Richie’s lips were on his neck just a second ago. Bill would think he’s gone crazy. He wouldn’t understand.

“W-w-well alright, Eddie. Ju-juh-just checking on you. I th-th-think I’ll drop by l-later. I’m planning on t-t-taking Mike out to The Tu-tuh-tuh-Turtle later, if yuh-yuh-you would like to c-c-c-come along,” Bill says.

“Oh! Tonight?” Eddie asks. _Nowhere to go. Time to come clear._

“Uh, yeah. W-w-when else?” Bill asks with a laugh.

Eddie sighs. “Bill, I… I gotta tell you about something.” He can’t lie to Bill. He never could.

“Th-th-th-thuh-there it is,” Bill responds. “What’s g-g-going on Eh-Eddie?”

“There was a man on my farm when I came home Friday night.”

“Wh-What? Are y-y-you al-al-alright?” Bill asks, tremor running through his voice like ice.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. He’s, well. He’s just down on his luck. Traveller, seasonal worker, type. He was going out to California when he fell off the train,” Eddie explains.

“He’s a tr-tr-tr-tr-trackhopper?” Bill asks.

“Yeah. Anyways… I agreed to let him stay with me. He busted his ankle-”

“Eddie! Ar-ar-are y-y-you k-k-k-kidding me? Have you luh-lost your damn m-m-mind?” Bill yells through the phone. _Yep. There it is._

“He’s fine. Listen, he’s so banged up there’s no way I couldn’t take him in a fight, if I had to. Besides, if I left him out there, well… he could have died!”

“S-s-so? Nuh-not your responsibility. Eddie, he c-c-c-could still hurt you. Or r-r-rob you,” Bill says.

“That’s not very Christian of you,” Eddie responds, almost reeling from how similar he sounded to his aunt.

Bill laughs. Loudly. “Yeah, cuh-cuh-cause we’re the sh-sh-shining examples of g-g-guh-good Christian f-f-fuh-fuh-folk. Listen, I’m cuh-coming over. And bringing Mike. I’ll ch-ch-check this guy out m-m-myself.”

“Oh Bill, you don’t have to do that,” Eddie says. He really doesn’t want Bill to do this. He doesn’t want this daydream to end and burst into reality.

“S-s-see you tonight, Eddie,” Bill says, and the line goes dead. Eddie hangs up the receiver.

Taking a breath, Eddie considers how to explain this to Richie. Should he come right out and say it? Tell Richie that his friend is so mistrustful of anyone messing around with Eddie that he’s going to come over for himself and make sure Richie has no bad intentions? Should he bring up the kiss?

He walks back to the living room, and knocks on the doorway before entering. _Look at him_, knocking in his own house.

The knitting has been carefully placed to the side, and when Eddie looks at it, he feels shameful, like it’s his dirty bed sheets, splayed out for the world to see.

Richie looks up at Eddie, and Eddie thinks he looks like a puppy this time, a puppy begging to be fed. But Richie smiles, and asks, “What’s the news, doc?”

Eddie breathes a sigh of relief. _They don’t have to talk about it just yet. _“My neighbor. The one with the vineyard. He’s coming over.”

“Today? Don’t you farmers do any work?” Richie says with a laugh.

“I told him I was… that, um. That you’ve been staying with me,” Eddie says, already wanting to take it back. He doesn’t want Richie to hurt about this. He doesn’t want Richie to feel unwelcome. Because he isn’t, not even in the slightest.

“He thinks I’m a bank robber, doesn’t he?” Richie asks, his mouth a grimace.

“Something like that,” Eddie admits. “He just wants to check out the situation.”

“What’s he gonna look for?” Richie asks, and Eddie knows what he means.

“Signs of thievery, or evil, I’m sure,” Eddie says, dodging Richie’s question.

Richie nods. “You have a good friend, Eds.”

“Don’t call me that.”

.

Eddie quickly returned to the fields, knowing Bill would be showing up in just a few hours. He didn’t want to ask Richie what had happened, why it happened, what was to come next, what else he could touch with his lips. It was too much and it was all at once. Evidence of what Eddie had always worried, evidence of how sick he was just like his mother thought. A sick little boy now a sick little man, craving the touch of another man.

But how it felt was overwhelmingly sweet. Like the freshest summer corn, lathered in sweet butter, just about falling off the cob and into your mouth on hot August days. Sweet like the wine Bill brought him over, biting at his tongue but succulent and tart. Like he could never drink enough. Eddie wondered if Richie felt the same way, if he could do things to make Richie feel that way.

The sun had just started to set, dusting the sky in hazy orange and yellow, when Eddie hears the distant rumble of Bill’s car. He looks down and across his fields and sees Bill’s old Daimler Fifteen chugging along. The car comes to a dusty stop and the faroff figures of Bill and Mike hop out, and begin walking up the path. Their silhouettes stay close, laughing and jostling each other, connecting and drifting before pulling back together. Eddie’s father would have said it was like a string, connecting them by the pinkies, binding them for life. Always a movement’s distance away from each other. Eddie liked it, even if it made him a little jealous sometimes.

“Good day to you, Eddie,” Mike shouts from the path, his easy smile etched into his face like an engraving.

Eddie offers back a little wave as they close the remaining of the shouting distance between them.

Bill does not share Mike’s smile, instead looking firm like a senator. Straight to business, he says, “W-w-well. Let’s see h-h-him.”

Eddie turns away, shaking his head, already nervous. He leads them up the path to his house, where he knows Richie is sitting and waiting. The image makes him feel guilty, like he’s a snitch reporting on the class clown to the teacher, saving his own neck by getting another in trouble.

As if a mirror to his energy, Richie is sitting straight as a board on the couch when the three men enter. He’s stiff and tight, almost identical to the position of polite nervousness that he had on that first night. The night that already feels like so long ago.

Richie turns to them with a smile, but Eddie can see his hands, those hands he got to know so well, are shaking.

Bill strides over, the same confidence of a cop, and says, “I’m B-B-B-Bill.” The strength in which he says it sends a shudder down Eddie’s spine. It’s almost as if Bill were growling.

Richie holds out his hand, still shaking, and says, “I’m Richard Milton, but call me Richie. Or whatever you want, I ain’t particular. Back home some folks called me Dick, but I don’t think that was with the nicest intentions. Regardless, I’m glad to meet ya, Big Bill.”

Richie’s ramble sends Bill’s eyebrows to knots, and he looks back at Eddie, as if it might all be some practical joke.

Mike walks over, cutting through the moment, and extending his hand, “I’m Mike. I work with Bill on his farm.”

“It’s nice to meet ya, too, Mikey, “ Richie says, before casting a look at Eddie. “Oh yeah, that wine-o farm. Eddie told me all about that. Selling hooch, huh? Haven’t had that in _forever. _And boy do I miss it. Kinda hard to find the speakeasies when you’re only in town for a month or so. People aren’t so keen on trusting outta-towners. Don’t you two worry your little heads though, your secret is safe with me”

If looks could kill, the one that Bill gave Eddie would have burnt him to a crisp.

“Jesus, Eddie, you just met the guy. You’re not supposed to tell people we’re still in business,” Mike says, rubbing his hand against his forehead.

“Hey, I’m sorry. But Richie says Prohibition is on its way out so you probably don’t even have to worry about it for much longer,” Eddie says.

“Oh, d-d-d-does he now?” Bill asks, looking between Eddie and Richie, that same perplexed face.

“Yeah. And besides, he’s a freighthopper, not like Mr. Upstanding Civilian. What’s he gonna do, tell on us?” Eddie justifies.

“S-s-still, Eddie,” Bill says, not as firm as before. Instead, he sounds confused.

Mike sighs, waves a hand as if to say it’s all in the past already, and turns again to Richie. “So, what’s your deal, friend?” he asks.

Richie shrugs. “Had a job out East. Pittsburgh. Then, well, you two know the story. Stocks crashed, country flushed itself down the toilet, lost my job with the rest of ‘em, so I packed up what I had left to my name and didn’t look back.”

Mike smiles weakly. They all knew this song. But, Bill shifts, squaring himself in front of Richie. Taking no prisoners.

“S-s-so. How’d you buh-buh-bust your ass so b-bad?” Bill asks.

Richie quirks up a half-smile. “Let’s just say, she was a very _burly _woman.”

Eddie giggles in spite of himself, but Bill and Mike stay silent.

“Alright, alright. I fell outta a train,” Richie says.

“Trackhoping, huh? Lucky you didn’t die,” Mike says.

“N-n-no. He’s l-l-luh-lucky that Eddie t-t-took him in,” Bill answers.

“I am,” Richie says pointedly, before looking at Eddie like a lost child.

Bill sighs and walks toward Richie, with the poise and motivation of a war general.

“S-s-s-so, Rich. How’d ya f-f-fuh-fall outta the train?” Bill asks.

“Head first?” Richie suggests.

“Huh. F-f-funny,” Bill says.

“Thanks, Bill. Funny’s my game,” Richie says, smiling and pinching at his own cheeks.

Bill hums before he says, “B-b-but you’ve been f-freighthopping since P-P-P-Pittsburgh?”

“Sure,” Richie says.

“But you f-f-fell out? This t-time? W-wuh-why?” Bill asks and Eddie sighs.

“Whaddya mean? Suggesting I got bored keeping my ass planted and my blood in my body? Think I’d like to try a new arrangement out for my ankle?” Richie responds and laughs.

Bill stays quiet. “W-w-well what made this t-t-time different?”

Then Eddie thinks. What _did _make this time different? How’d Richie make it all the way to Nevada from Pittsburgh, just to suddenly fall out this one time? The odds stacked against him one too many times? Had Eddie been a fool? Did Bill suss out the wolf?

But, Richie just laughs. “Oh, Bill. I like you. You’re lookin’ out for Eds, I get it. He’s just absolutely adorable. Little cutie pie that you just wanna wrap him up in a blanket and hide him away forever, yeah?”

“Wh-” Bill starts.

“But he can take care of himself. You know that. He knows that. Fucks sake, I know that. I fell outta the train cause I dropped my bag. Fell asleep too close to the door, ya see. Need my bag, Bill. Cause when you’re a vagabond like me, your whole life is in that bag.”

Eddie smiles with the warmth and heat of being _known_. Understood.

“Huh. Still dumb,” Mike says.

“Never said I wasn’t,” Richie says with a beam of a smile.

“I still don’t trust it,” Bill adds, not smiling, not laughing.

“Oh, Bill, would you quit it?” Eddie asks, starting to feel the heat of annoyance. He could take care of himself, dammit.

“Eddie? I’m l-l-looking out for you,” Bill says.

“I know that. And I thank you for it. But I can handle myself, and I can tell Richie isn’t going to give me any trouble.”

Bill sighs, and Eddie casts a glance toward Richie. At his eyes, Richie’s smile lifts up, and he seems genuinely happy for the first time since Bill had come over. Eddie feels like he’s sharing a secret with Richie. And he likes it.

“Are you, Rich? Gonna give me any trouble?” Eddie asks.

Richie giggles, “Nah, Eddie is gonna be the one giving me trouble. I’ll have you all know that Eddie has been working me to death over here on this farm. Saw me in my weakened state. Taking absolute advantage of me for it. This absolute monster is having me wash his unmentionables.”

Eddie laughs at Richie’s joke, but Bill shoots his eyes between them looking bewildered.

When Mike notices Bill not laughing, he pats him on the shoulder and it makes Bill soften under his touch.

Bill’s mouth is a tight line when he finally says, “Fine, b-b-b-but I’m not c-c-completely comfortable with this. And you’re on th-thi-thin ice, Richie.”

“Well, I’m comfortable with this,” Eddie says and looks at Richie. “Besides, Richie’s been alright. And he has some good stories.”

“_Oh, dank ya Eds. It’s da least I can be doin’ in repayin’ ya,”_ Richie says.

“Not the Irish guy,” Eddie sighs.

Richie giggles but quiets, and his eyes linger on Eddie.

Bill ignores the whole thing and turns to Eddie to ask, “You w-w-wanna come with us t-t-t-to The Tuh-Turtle? C-c-can you trust Richie alone here?”

“He can come with us,” Eddie says, surprising even himself. _Yeah. There. Richie can come._

“N-No,” Bill says.

Mike chimes in, saying, “Eddie, you know how The Turtle is. They don’t let just anybody in.”

“Yeah? Well, Bill gives them all of their goddamn alcohol, so they better let in any of his friends. And, isn’t Richie your friend, Bill? On account of the fact that he’s mine?” Eddie starts.

“Oh, Eds, you don’t gotta-” Richie starts.

“Shut your mouth. You’re coming,” Eddie finishes.

“How about this… Let’s all just have a drink here?” Mike asks, his calm and steady voice acting as a natural diffuser.

“But-” Eddie begins.

“Eddie, I get it. It would be fun if we could all go. But, I don’t think your friend is much up to making the trek all the way to The Turtle,” Mike answers, gesturing toward Richie’s cane.

“We could just take the car,” Eddie suggests, but he knows Mike is right.

“Come on, it will be just as fun here. We can take Richie once he recovers,” Mike offers.

Eddie huffs. They were right. Richie couldn’t make it to The Turtle. Not easily. Not without making his ankle worse.

“Besides, Officer P-P-P-Penny has really had it out f-f-for us,” Bill adds, his face a relieved wash at what Eddie’s guess was the realization that they wouldn’t be risking dragging around a vagrant.

“Yeah, ever since Big Bill refused to give him some of that wine, for, what was it he was gonna pay? Nothing? Yeah, for free. Ever since then he’s been trying to catch us drinking or something. Anything he can do to arrest us,” Mike says.

“Yeah, he’ll throw us in the Big House f-f-f-faster than you can say h-h-hooch,” Bill says.

“Well, faster than you can say it for sure,” Richie adds then goes bright red.

Silence settles over the group, thick and hot. Eddie holds in a gasp and glances at Bill. _Fuck. Oh God. Oh fuck._

Bill turns to Richie, exuding the firm air of absolute strength and power. The confidence he always holds, but expanding high. Bigger than usual. It’s a look that Eddie rarely ever sees. Only when Bill was angry, truly angry. Only like when he talks about The Great War, which Bill fought during the tail end of it. Those kinds of memories riled him up like this. Or would bring him crashing down.

Bill takes a step toward Richie, and Eddie’s heart falls when he sees the shadow of a flinch flow through Richie’s body, though nothing has happened. This couldn’t have been the first time that Richie’s been in a situation like this, Eddie realizes. So, without thinking, he steps forward himself, braces himself, to do _what?_ He didn’t know. But something. Maybe. If he had to.

But the tense air breaks when Bill relaxes into a smile. “You’re an absolute b-b-b-bonafide idiot, huh? You s-s-sure you fell out of that train? Sure you weren’t p-p-p-pushed?”

Richie sucks in a breath and smiles. “I’m sorry, I am. Got a problem with my mouth, ya see. It’s always runnin’.”

“You must have been a damned _de-_light in Primary School,” Mike says with a shake of his head.

“Gotta say, that _is _where I took most of my whoopings,” Richie says, his hand gravitating toward his cheekbone, chasing the ghost of memories. Eddie wants to chase those ghosts away.

“You’re real lucky that it was Eddie’s farm you ended up on,” Mike says. “If it had been ours, you mighta taken another whooping. If I came home to you in the middle of the night? And you said some sort of dumbass shit? Oh boy. You’re real lucky, _keed._”

“I’m lucky that Eddie was all boozy. I’m sure if he wasn’t then he woulda knocked my ass flat,” Richie responds.

“Your ass was already flat, sleeping in my pumpkins,” Eddie reminds Richie, his nervous heart having calmed into the conversation. It no longer felt like heat. He wasn’t worried anymore.

“C-c-c-come on,” Bill says. “Let’s p-p-pop this open. I gotta luh-long day t-t-t-tomorrow.”

“The usual place, Eddie?” Mike asks.

“Yeah, sure,” Eddie responds. “Lead the way.”

Bill sets off, with Mike close in tow, leaving behind Eddie who attempts to help Richie to his feet.

“So, where is this mystery place?” Richie asks as Eddie takes his hands to help stabilize him. The motion sends tingles of memory through Eddie’s arms, the memories of Richie’s hands beneath his, or Richie’s breath, rolling across Eddie’s neck. Eddie feels himself get hot.

“Cellar,” Eddie starts.

“The cellar, Eds? You just bringing me down there to murder me? Rob me of all of my ten dollars to my name?”

Eddie laughs. “No, if I wanted to murder you, I think I could have handled that already.”

“I’m sure I could take ya,” Richie says and winks.

“You think a skinny thing like you could take me? With your ankle looking like that? Oh please,” Eddie laughs, harder.

“We’ll just have to see,” Richie says, and his voice is breathier. The sound of it chokes Eddie’s laughter in his throat.

“So why _are _we going to your cellar?” Richie asks.

“It’s where we started, in the early days of Prohibition. Back when you were actually afraid of the cops busting down your door to catch you drinking a bottle of hooch. Now… well, now we just use it because it’s tradition, I suppose,” Eddie offers as he supports Richie’s weight through the walk. Richie had gotten better with the cane, but Eddie still felt like he should help. After all, it’s not like he wanted Richie to _fall _or something. No, it was a good idea to make sure Richie could get there. To support him. Besides, it’s not like Richie was complaining.

“Ooh, how illicit. I thought you were a good farmer-boy, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie says, almost whispering into his ear. The feeling of his voice, so close, as it floats across Eddie’s skin, is already so familiar, like the booming roar of a far-off train.

“I got my secrets, Richie,” Eddie says, feeling blush creep up his cheeks. Richie smiles at him, only a foot away from his own face, and Eddie’s breath catches at the sight.

Right before they turn the corner, though, Mike pops his head back and asks, “You two dawdling?” As he says it, his eyes roam between Eddie and Richie, charting the fracture-split of a line between their pressed-together bodies.

Eddie feels his stomach churn under Mike’s eyes. He tightens his mouth and says, “Richie’s ankle-”

But before he can finish, Mike hums, nods, and, to Eddie’s dismay, _winks_ at them, before turning back around the corner and descending the rickety ladder into Eddie’s cellar.

Richie giggles, the sound twinkling across Eddie’s head like rusty bells. But Eddie’s stomach is still churning, his mind still running, his back still sweating at Mike’s eyes. He felt exposed. Like he had to hide.

He turns his head away from Richie, his thoughts too thick to risk glancing at freckles and curved lips, instead focusing on getting Richie to the cellar stairs. Helping him down the ladder is made all the more difficult under the silent stare of Bill and Mike, and it continues the heat that is consuming Eddie’s back. He might be sweating through his shirt at this point. The thought that Bill and Mike will figure Eddie out before he’s even gotten around to it himself is running through his mind like a propeller, but he doesn’t know which way to turn. Should he run headfirst into it? Or slink back into the cold?

He focuses forward, on the warm middle ground of Richie’s hips, as he grips tightly into them to support the entirety of Richie’s weight as they descend.

Eddie’s cellar could barely be described as such. It’s warm and dry, crafted under the master hand of the local architect, Ben Gable. As a result of Ben’s proficiency, the cellar never flooded, and it became a perfect storage place for Eddie’s books, creating a little library nook. The storage of books was broken only by the storage of some of the fanciest wine that Bill had ever given Eddie. Wine that Eddie saved. As a result, the cellar didn’t have that distinctive stale stench of insects and dank, instead smelling like rosy wine-stained wood, and the soft draft of old books.

Instead of dreading the cellar for spiderwebs and unlit shadows shifting in the night, Eddie felt safe here. No, he didn’t worry about having to retrieve something from its murky depths, like he had when he still lived with his mother, and he didn’t have to worry about hiding coiled snakes or mysteriously colored spiders, just waiting to sink their fangs into him, like he had when he lived with his aunt. Instead, Eddie felt safe in his basement. He felt secure surrounded by the books of faroff adventures and the promise of love and friendship in the form of specially bottled wine. Wine that was meant for a special occasion. Some distant special occasion that he never could imagine correctly. Not even with Myra

In the cellar right now, though, under flickering light dancing across pale skin and bruises, the image of an occasion for that fancy wine, was becoming just a little clearer.

Bill plops himself down on the small round table that sits directly in the middle of the small room. He lands in his favorite of the mismatched arm chairs, a large red one, plush and fit for a king. His hands move quick to pour out deep red wine into four of seven fancy wine glasses, Bill’s originally, but long ago gifted to Eddie. The swishing sound makes Eddie’s mouth water as he sits himself down on a two-seater, loveseat. The only two-seater in the room. He hopes he won’t have to sit alone. He doesn’t.

Richie nearly collapses into place next to him, a jumble of twiggy limbs. He’s quick to fidgeting, already picking at the threads on his pants, twirling his own curls between his fingers, biting at the remnants of his nails. Only occasionally brushing against Eddie. His entire body hums and vibrates like a forest in an autumn storm, and Eddie thinks it’s beautiful, if not a little terrifying. Raw dangerous power, barely contained.

“Eddie? You want your drink or not?” Mike asks, shocking Eddie out of his trance, and Eddie is taking the glass in his hand, raising it to his lips, and letting the tangy liquid swell over his tongue.

“How d-d-do you like it? Tr-tried something a l-little d-different with the b-b-b-buh-barrelling process,” Bill asks, swishing the wine around in the fourth cup, before finally offering it to Richie.

“It’s great, Bill,” Eddie says. “I love it when you experiment with Pinot,” Eddie answers.

“Yeah, it’s a b-bit s-s-stronger than I intended, th-though,” Bill admits, scowling into his drink.

“Yeah, the other bottle that Bill made gave me a helluva hangover the next day. I barely had a glass,” Mike laughs, sipping gingerly at his own drink.

“What, Bill, are you trying to get me to not do work?” Eddie asks.

“Eddie, we couldn’t get you to not do work if we tried,” Mike laughs in response and Bill’s steely face finally cracks into a small smile.

Richie takes his own glass in both hands, and stares at Bill with the delight of a prisoner finally set free. “Jeez, Bill, _you are ab-so-lute-tally a true dahhling. Jus’ like the warm Southern sun on my back. Takes me back to the days of true chivalry, my dear,” _Richie drawls with the sing-songy melody of a Louisiana accent. Eddie figures it’s not even half-bad.

“Y-y-you ever even been to the South, s-s-son?” Bill asks, tipping back his own drink.

“Oh, you bet! Been jus’ about everywhere,” Richie says, finally taking a sip of his own drink, nearly spilling drops down the sides of his mouth. Luckily, Eddie thinks before reaching up to wipe them away. _Not this time._

“Have you now?” Mike asks and giggles.

“Yes, sir! Done just about something and _someone _in every state from here to Pennsylvania,” Richie says and winks at Mike. Eddie’s brain goes a little fuzzy, and he wonders if the wine really _is_ that fast.

“Charming,” Mike says and Bill casts a sideways glance.

Richie shrugs and knocks back his wine, taking a gulp that’s almost too big for pleasant company. The way his throat pulls it down in the fuzzy candlelight makes Eddie’s thoughts not fit for pleasant company, either. _Maybe the wine really is that strong, to have him think thoughts like that. Bad thoughts. Weird thoughts. Thoughts that made him want to crawl up into a ball like a child._

So, Eddie knocks back his drink, because he figures it’s something to do other than watch Richie. Maybe he’ll finish it fast enough that Bill and Mike will leave and he can, _what?_ Hide in his room and fall asleep? _Again?_

“S-s-so you do l-like it, huh?” Bill asks Eddie.

Eddie cracks a half-smile, the wine working quick to fuzzy up his mind. He turns to Richie and says, “So, let’s hear some stories. Bill and Mike haven’t heard a thing about the fabulous Richie Milton, and his travels across the United States.”

Richie laughs. “I do have a few more. Like I said, lots of beautiful people from here to back East,” and Richie’s eyes linger on Eddie’s face.

“Yeah? Got any more chicken-stealing anecdotes?” Eddie asks, a little stronger.

Mike and Bill cast each other confused expressions as Richie laughs. They don’t seem to notice when Richie’s hand grips Eddie’s knee, a quick touch, but his fingers dig tight.

“For you, Eds? Anything,” Richie says, and turns to Bill and Mike with seasoned practice. “Let me regale the pleasant farming folk of these lower Nevada plains. Let me open your ears and tell you all of the time I willingly, and lovingly, dug my hand into fresh hot cow shit.”

“Oh god,” Eddie revolts, already regretting asking Richie.

Richie laughs and leans back, extending his arm across the back of the loveseat, and nearly connecting with Eddie’s back. The lack of touch, the almost-there air, the inches of empty space - it all tingles.

“So, in a little town, tucked into the armpit of Southern West Virginia, there sits a little farm. Absolutely lovely, my dears. A one-of-a-kind patch of land. Just darling,” Richie says, drawing out his words. “Well, I had the sheer luck of landing, this time feet-first, on this little plot. And even more luck of being hired for some seasonal work. Man, I tell ya. Us Appalachian folk. Don’t make ‘em like that just about anywhere else.” Richie sighs, a heavy longing sigh, before casting an eye at Eddie. “Well, except for you, Eddie my darlin’. Why, you’d fit just right in the great state of Pennsylvania. You little cutie,” Richie says, as he reaches up and… _pinches_ Eddie’s cheek.

Eddie’s jaw drops open and Bill and Mike look a thick cross between absolutely entertained and utterly confused. Nobody has pinched Eddie’s cheek since he was a damn child, and here Richie was having an absolute gas of a time, _pinching _Eddie’s cheek. Before Eddie can respond to it though, Richie is back to his story, absolutely lost in the tale.

“Now this farmer, he was the best. Paid well. Let us sleep in the house. Fed us. By God, I woulda married him if I could have. When I just about _had _to leave because there was no more wheat to pick, I had saved enough to guarantee my travel for at least three more states. I thought I was almost home free to California. Ready to go west. Make my mark, I’ll have you. Boy, I was just about flying on a balloon.”

“And the cow shit?” Mike asks.

“I’m getting to the cow shit,” Richie says with a giggle, and a steady blush under his eyes. “So, as I was saying, I was flying high. Last day, cash in my hand, more than I had seen since the stocks shat the bed. Yeah, I was feelin’ pretty damn amazing since all that kerfuffle in Pittsburgh,” Richie explains, all broad gestures and voices, pausing only to take gulping sips of wine, getting rosier and rosier with each touch to his lips.

“Kerfuffle?” Bill asks.

“Yeah, it means trouble,” Richie says, with a wave of his hand.

“I know w-w-what it means-”

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Billy-boy. Just your classic Depression story. I’m sure you could tell it for me,” Richie says with a wink, and Eddie gets the feeling that Richie is speaking in codes.

“Well, go on,” Eddie says, the wine buzzing through his system. His hands feel like they’re gravitating toward Richie, approaching this unspeakable distance. So he busies the conniving traitors with pouring more wine instead.

“Yes, my dear. So there I was, riding high, feathers fluffed, making my way into town, and considering treating myself to something sweet. Maybe some delicacies like chocolates or diamonds, whatever I could throw my money at first. Now, folks, this is where little Richie gets himself in some trouble, so hold tight to your hats. This big mean fuck of an ogre named Henry stolls out from the woods like the monster he is and blocks my path. We’re out in the middle o’ nowhere, surrounded by trees and squirrels on this damn dirt path. And he’s blocking me off. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Maybe he was just there to spread the good word of our Lord and Savior? But, no, I cannot say that lady luck was dancing with me that night.

“No, instead this human-boulder that had been- get this- kicked off the farm about a month ago for _stealing_ of all things, is deciding that my path is just about perfect for his big ‘ol Saturn sized ass. Well, I bet you gents can just imagine what this fucker had in mind. I’ll give ya a hint and I’ll say it wasn’t to praise my work-ethic, that’s for fuck’s sure.”

“I was gonna say, sounds like he wasn’t recruiting for Uncle Sam,” Mike says.

“You’d be guessing right, Mikey. Nope. He was looking to make up for his missed-out-on money. Ya know. The money he was so sorely _robbed _of. So this asshole. Well he damn near beats me to a pulp. Get’s the quick on me, sucker punches me to the nuts, and robs me blind. Took every damn dollar that I had earned. All that cold hard cash I was gonna turn to chocolates or fuck, food for the road or somethin’. The only thing I’m lucky for is that fucker got tired before he made it to my personal items,” Richie says, his hand gravitating toward his nose, reaching for the ghost of an injury again.

“Oh,” Eddie says, sad and slurred, a quiet sound. He couldn’t help but imagine Richie being beaten, and it shook him to his core. This time, he can’t stop his hand from patting Richie’s knee, although it is still with the hesitation of the awkward bubble that was supposed to separate grown men. Eddie doesn’t look at Bill and Mike when he does this, because he doesn’t want to know what they think. He still wants this secret hidden thing. Maybe if he doesn’t look, then he’ll never see.

Richie flushes and glances at Eddie with those dreamy eyes before continuing. “Now, look, as he was walking away and I was seeing stars, bleeding out into the dirt, I swore my revenge. Nobody makes a mess of Richie Milton like that and gets _away _with it. No they do _not. _Not shitheads named Henry for godsakes. So I went back to that gracious damn near _angel _of a farmer and begged him for just enough money to make it to the next town over. He granted my simple prayer. So I crossed the line into Kentucky.”

Richie suddenly gets gravely serious, and looks across the room with no trace of a smile. “Now… my dear gentlemen… you will need to prepare yourself for this next bit. It might seem hard to believe. Damn, I nearly don’t believe it myself, looking back. Well, right as I rolled myself off that train into the dusty beyond, you would not believe who my shitty eyes saw, dozing his fat ass against a tree, ugly mug snoring to the sun? Why, it was my dear friend. Henry. So you can guess what I did, I’m sure,” Richie says.

“You b-b-beat his ass?” Bill asks.

“Get your money back?” Mike says.

“Oh fuck,” Eddie says, because he knows.

“No, my friends. That would have been too easy. Much too simple. No. That fucker could have my money. I had something better in mine. You see, by the grace of God, we were on a cow farm,” Richie says.

“Oh n-n-n-no,” Bill says.

“Oh y-y-yes, Big Bill,” Richie responds. “There were plenty of pies ripe for the taking. So I took a big ‘ol scoop. Walked _reeeeel _quiet, and gave dear Henry the bath he so desperately needed.”

Eddie recoils again. “You didn’t. I cannot believe you actually dug your hands into _cow shit?! _Why would you do that? Do you know what kind of germs are in there? You’re lucky you’re still alive.”

“It was the principle of it, Eddie my love. I mean, by God. Henry’s face when he woke up made it all the more worth it!” Richie exclaims and downs his drink.

Eddie realizes that he has also finished his own second glass, and when he draws his eyes back up to Richie, they feel heavy and full. He catches Richie’s downcast look, and _swears _he hears Richie’s sharp intake of breath.

“Did he kill you after that?” Mike asks, and Eddie remembers that they’re there.

Richie pulls his eyes away from Eddie’s stare and says, “Nah. I ran faster than the devil to get outta there. Besides, I made sure to get it in his eyes.”

Bill gags, and says, “And w-w-with that, Mike, I think it’s best we get to the Turtle. B-besides, Eddie’s finished up all of our wine.” Bill laughs and stands up, offering his hand to Mike to raise him to his feet.

“Already?” Eddie asks, worrying that he might have been excluding his best friend.

“Yeah. I g-g-got some s-sales to make. C-Come on,” he says, then taking the turn to help Eddie to his feet.

When Eddie stands, he nearly tips over, the wine casting his legs to jelly.

“Woah!” Richie is quick to catch Eddie by his hips, steadying him against the drunken wave.

The feeling of Richie’s hands on Eddie’s hips is too much all at once. He wants to run away, but also to lean into it, let Richie grab him and hold him and drag him wherever he wants. It’s too much and it’s all at once and Eddie can feel his breath racing like it did when he was a kid. So he pulls himself away from their grip to heave himself up the ladder and scramble to the kitchen. Leaning against the cool counter, Eddie fills a glass with water and chugs it back, hoping to calm the storm of thoughts in his mind and still the nervous energy that had taken him over.

He leans there, heavy against his counter, until he hears the scuffle of Mike pulling Richie out of the cellar, and the quiet footsteps of Bill. He hears them, measured and purposeful, as they walk to Eddie’s kitchen. So, Eddie prepares. He prepares to be picked apart, maybe even scolded, accused of some horrendous truth about himself. He’s used to being scolded.

Instead, when Bill enters the kitchen, he looks sympathetic. Sad, even. His eyes are full, and his eyebrows are cast skyward. _Oh God, this is worse._

“Eddie,” Bill starts.

“Don’t even say it, Bill. I can take care of myself and Richie is nothing to be afraid of,” Eddie says, smelling the sharp sting of alcohol leaking from his breath.

“Th-th-that’s not what I was g-g-going to say,” Bill says, and reaches out a hand to Eddie’s shoulder. His touch is warm, and forgiving, and it reminds Eddie of the time when he used to be obsessed with Bill. He had a total hero-worship for the man, and he would have totally melted under a touch like this. Now, it’s just pure comfort.

“What, then?” Eddie asks.

Bill takes a breath, and looks down, before looking back up at Eddie with a face of grave seriousness. A face that Eddie only saw when Bill got _really _sad about the war. When he would mention another soldier that he had been close with. A soldier that Eddie never met. A soldier named Stan. A dead Soldier.

“I’ve n-n-never told you. Well, n-not outright. C-cause it’s d-d-d-dangerous. B-b-but now I think I ought t-to.”

“What?” Eddie asks, suddenly hit with fear.

“I’m uh… w-w-well. D-during the w-war. And n-n-now. With M-Mike…”

“What?”

“M-me and Mike. We’re uh… t-t-t-tuh-tuh-tog-together.”

“Together?” Eddie asks, not understanding. Confused.

“Yeah. L-l-l-like m-m-married. B-but not.”

“But… you’re both…”

“M-men. Q-q-q-quh-queer,” Bill says, and he looks like he almost wants to throw up.

“Oh.”

“I love him,” Bill says, and the picture is crystal clear.

Bill and Mike laughing together on a porch, to some inside joke they only ever seemed to get. Bill and Mike, knees knocking, hands drifting, closer than men usually dared to sit. Bill bringing Mike a glass of wine, never letting him pour it himself. Mike, always worrying if Bill was cold, bringing him a jacket on drafty winter nights. Bill, stuttering less the closer he sat to Mike, and Mike always full of patience and understanding. Dusty summer afternoons when Mike’s gaze lingered on Bill, and the sweat that would gather beneath his straw hat, sticking his linen shirt to his tanned body. Eddie saw all of it.

“Oh.”

“Y-yeah. And it’s okay Eh-Eddie. It’s s-s-s-safe,” Bill says. “D-d-do you get what I’m s-s-saying?”

He was adding something up. But not quite.

“No.”

Bill laughs, a little breathlessly. “R-Richie. It’s obvious. Eh-Eddie. You l-l-like him.”

“No!” Eddie gasps, the word ripping from him like an arm being ripped off. Eddie is hot in a flash and shaking his head. “I’m not queer. I’m not.” Had he been obvious? With his adoration, with his love? Had his… interest in this mysterious stranger blown in from the cold and deposited itself at their feet, sick and pathetic, obvious and diseased?

“Eh-Eddie. It’s okay. S-s-s-seriously,” Bill says, his face back to worry.

“Listen, Bill,” Eddie starts, his breath ramping up and his voice knocked up a few notches, “I’m happy for you and Mike, alright? You’re queer and it’s fine and all. But me and Richie? No, nothing like that. It’s my Christian duty, right? Yeah on account of-”

“The Depression,” Bill finishes. “Yeah. S-s-sure. But l-listen. If y-y-you like him. Be brave. G-g-go for it. You don’t always m-m-meet people like us. I’ll l-l-l-love you no matter w-wuh-what.”

Eddie quiets, the weight of it all settling over him like heavy snow. He continues to look down, avoiding Bill’s honest stare. The questions buzzing in his mind like honeybees were too loud for him to even respond. Bill turns and makes his way to the door.

Before he steps out, however, he leans back in and says with perfect clarity, “Besides, I think Richie likes you, too.”

And with that, he walks away and Eddie is left with the sound of his footsteps and the disquiet of his thoughts. The house settles behind Bill and Mike when they leave, and the front door swings shut with a full purpose.

Eddie stands quiet, and listens. He listens for breathing, for sounds, for his own thoughts to finally still. He listens and tries to hear clarity. Or hear Richie. But maybe Richie left with them, ready to abandon Eddie in the lonesome of his house.

But he doesn’t hear the quiet of an empty house. Instead, he hears Richie hobble to the bathroom.

So, with the buzz of questions with no answers, and drunken unbridled bravery, Eddie steals away to the spare bedroom, to Richie’s room, and sits down on the edge of the bed, with his hands tucked tightly underneath his thighs, ready for… something. He’s ready to stagger toward a decision, propelled by the alcohol buzzing under his skin, Bill’s words wrapping around his mind, and the Richie fog that clouds his thoughts. The fog, that always starts itself in Eddie’s mind, before it descends lower, stuttering his heart, then lower to his stomach where it manifests floating yellow butterflies, and then goes lower still. The fog gets tighter, and thicker, and more blinding as Eddie hears Richie hobble down the hallway, turn the corner, and crack open the door. Eddie can barely breathe.

Richie startles when he walks in and finds Eddie sitting there, before he breaks into an endlessly wide smile.

“Hi,” Eddie says, while Richie makes his way to the bed, sitting and facing Eddie. Richie smiles back and leans against the headboard.

“What good deed did I do to deserve coming to find you in my bed with that pretty little face?” Richie asks as he pulls his bad leg up, tucking it behind Eddie, just out of touch.

Something lurches in Eddie at Richie’s words, so he says, “Oh, quiet. Just thought I’d check on your ankle. If I don’t keep an eye on it… then it might, uh, progress into a break, or something. It might never go back to normal,” Eddie stammers.

“Are you in a state to be practicing, Doc? I think working drunk leads to malpractice of some sort,” Richie says, his eyes still sparkling against the candles.

“I think you’ll be alright,” Eddie laughs, leaning against the bed. He moves his hands toward Richie’s calf.

“Hey, did I ever tell you why I really fell off the train?” Richie asks, and Eddie stops his hands.

“No?” Eddie responds, raising an eyebrow. Had he been tricked? Was this the final straw?

Richie leans forward, placing his hand before Eddie’s eyes, and the candlelight bounces against the dull shine of a ring, right on Richie’s thumb. Richie pulls it off and puts it in Eddie’s hand.

“My father gave me that ring. Before he… before he went off to France. He fought in the war and died,” Richie says. “Last thing he ever gave me. Told me that I deserved it. Whatever the hell that means. It’s an ugly old ring.” Richie laughs but there’s no heart in it.

“I’m sorry about your father,” Eddie says.

Richie shrugs, the condolence rolling off of him. “Yeah, well I dropped it off the train. I fell asleep too close to the door, and I felt it fall from my hand. So, I jumped, Eds. I had to. Crawled through the bushes for ‘bout an hour before I found it. Then I crawled to your farm. And you found me.”

“You could have died,” Eddie says, looking at Richie like he clicked a new puzzle piece in, understood just a bit more.

Richie laughs. “That’s the way a lotta my stories go.”

“Yeah, well not anymore. I’m not having you risk your life like that,” Eddie says, feeling suddenly personally responsible for this idiot.

“Look at the ring, Eds,” Richie says.

Eddie obeys and looks down at the ring. In the candlelight, he catches something he didn’t notice before. Just the faintest remnants of an engraving. _R. E. _

“R. E.? What does that mean? I thought your last name was Milton?” Eddie asks, staring at the letters.

“My last name _is _Milton. And my father’s was Wentworth. And Eds, to be honest, I’ve never known what the hell it meant. Fuck, I don’t know if my father named me after that damn ring. That motherfucker told me he would fill me in when he got back and then he got himself shot so he could take the secret to his grave. Just know it was important.”

“I’m sorry, Richie,” Eddie says again, and this time, Richie nods, and the sentiment hits.

“Now get to work on my leg, that’s enough sadness,” Richie says with a small smile. Eddie hands him back the ring, and Richie fastens it to his thumb, tightly.

Eddie goes to work on Richie’s leg. Touching him makes Eddie feel drunk again. He lacks the delicate fingers that he had previously mastered, all jumbled from the conflicting thoughts in his brain, and the unbridled urge to just _touch _Richie. He peels up Richie’s pants, revealing the fading bruising of the ankle. Richie is quiet again, as he always is when Eddie is touching him, and Eddie revels in the sound of nothing but their breath. He takes Richie’s ankle in his hands, and runs gentle gliding fingers across the muscle, tracing the yellow bruises. With his other hand, he massages the back of Richie’s calf, leaning into the motion of his digging fingers, until he’s propped up on his elbow, facing Richie’s leg, and avoiding his stare. He feels like he can’t touch Richie enough. He wants to press every inch of his skin against him. The candlelight makes Richie’s legs glow in Eddie’s hands, and it looks unbelievable. Like something out of a painting.

“Eds,” Richie says, and Eddie looks up, taking his time to drag his eyes along Richie’s body as he goes.

“Yeah?” Eddie asks, his eyes heavy on Richie’s mouth, waiting to hear every syllable of what Richie might say.

“What are you-” Richie asks, but the words fall quiet, as Eddie continues to work, massaging the muscles of Richie’s calf, and holding his eyes steady on Richie’s.

“Do you like this? I figured your legs might be sore from all your hobbling,” Eddie asks, smiling and leaning his body closer against Richie’s legs, until he’s almost flat against them. But not quite.

“Yeah,” Richie says, his voice tight.

So, Eddie digs his fingers in harder, massaging deep tissue, until Richie is squirming and laughing.

“H-hey! That hurts,” Richie says with a pained laugh, his eyebrows all furrowed.

“It’s good for you,” Eddie says, smirking, and uses the squirming of the moment to shift closer, and his hands higher, until they’re pressing into the muscles between Richie’s knee and his thigh. Eddie’s heart is racing faster, as he revels in the feeling of a part of Richie he has yet to touch.

Richie’s laughing stops, and the room is more quiet, filled only by the sound of their breathing, growing steadily deeper, fuller. Eddie lets up the pressure of his fingertips, and adjusts his hands, so instead his palm is flat against the inside of Richie’s thigh. It was almost a barrier, moving from the massage, to a foreign touch. A barrier that Eddie had glided by in an instant. He might not have been ready, but here he was, touching Richie in a way that he knew had to mean more than any way they had touched each other yet. Well, except for maybe the kiss.

Eddie looks up at Richie, terrified of how he might look, angry and disgusted. Instead, he’s slack-jawed and his eyes are lidded low. It’s shocking, seeing Richie all moon-eyed and jelly under Eddie’s touch.

So, with this pull, the unrelenting magnetism that had been guiding him, the current he could no longer fight, Eddie leans forward, and presses his lips hard against Richie’s leg, returning Richie’s own kiss from earlier.

Richie is dead-still until he isn’t, shooting down from the head of the bed, and grabbing Eddie by the chin, and pressing his chapped lips against Eddie’s mouth. His grip around Eddie’s face is so tight that it almost hurts, but Eddie understands the desperation, and he’s grabbing into Richie’s hair like it’s life itself. Heat rushes through Eddie’s whole body and the fog completely envelops him. He climbs onto Richie’s body, pressing against him, never leaving his mouth. Richie’s fingers adjust until they’re digging against Eddie’s shoulders, gripping at the fabric.

When Richie’s hips buck up, Eddie’s mouth falls open and Richie’s tongue is there, gliding along Eddie’s lips. Eddie can’t help the whimper that escapes his mouth at the feeling. He’s almost embarrassed, but this falls away when Richie melts against him, dragging his fingers into the back of Eddie’s neck, and groaning against Eddie’s mouth.

Pulled by instinct, Eddie drags his knees up, wrapping his legs around Richie’s hips and grinding against him, until he feels Richie thrust up again and it’s almost too much all at once, too strong, hitting him like a breaking wave and he likes it all too much, so much. Richie is receiving him like it’s already habit.

The movement, the feel of Richie underneath him, and his tongue in his mouth, finally reminds him of the answer he forgot. He’s sure he’s known Richie before, sure he’s kissed him, and loved him, and swore his truth to him. He knows Richie in his soul, and his own soul was screaming out, begging and thanking. It’s so much, and it overwhelms him until Eddie isn’t breathing and his lungs are hurting and he feels like screaming.

Eddie pulls away, and Richie stares at him like he’s the moon.

“Can we… uh,” Eddie starts.

“Slow down?” Richie asks and Eddie nods. Richie smiles, and trails his hands along Eddie’s shoulders. “Of course.”

Eddie smiles and leans in, ignoring the invisible push holding him, telling him he was sick for what he was doing, and kisses Richie again, with softness.

Richie breathes in deeply and says, “I feel like I’ve kissed you before. Does that make sense? You taste familiar.”

A tsunami of memories hit Eddie as he remembers how he felt the night he found Richie on his farm. When he knew he had known Richie. When he felt everything all at once and held it in because it was indescribable.

“Yes. I feel like I’ve known you forever,” Eddie admits, against his better judgement.

“Yeah. Forever,” Richie says and leans in again. He kisses Eddie gently this time, and Eddie lies down on the bed next to him, facing Richie, hands roaming along his face, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones. Eddie flutters little kisses against Richie’s lips, as the light from the candle dims, until they’re only illuminated by the silver moonlight in the window.

“Is this okay?” Richie asks Eddie, as he trails his hands along Eddie’s arm, and kisses at Eddie’s lips, his nose, his cheeks.

“Yes, but I’m tired,” Eddie admits.

“Me too,” Richie says. “I feel like I’ve been tired forever.”

“But it’s okay now,” Eddie finishes, and dances his hands through Richie’s curls.

When Eddie pulls away, to kiss at Richie’s neck, Richie looks hazy, and Eddie wonders if Richie falls under the same fog that consumes Eddie. They kiss, kiss, and kiss, until the moon is high in the sky and they’re both falling asleep, awoken only by soft presses of lips.

Before Eddie fully sleeps, consumed by alcohol and the exhaustion that follows learning a secret you’ve hidden, an answer you’ve avoided, Eddie realizes another answer. _R. E. Of course._

.

The next morning, Eddie wakes up hot and sticky. The autumn wind had stopped in its tracks, and a summer morning had drifted its way into their October chill. Heat blazes through the window, and Eddie is sweating.

And he remembers. He remembers lips. And kissing, and secrets, and rings. He’s lurching up against the stifling blankets and searching, but Richie is nowhere to be found. His bag is still here, resting against the chair, but Richie is missing and Eddie is alone. Alone with his thoughts. Alone with the realizations of last night and the sludgy hangover sitting thick in his veins.

He jumps out of bed and to his room, where he changes quickly. Donning his farming clothing, Eddie runs out of the house, despite the acid curling up his throat, and sprints to his fields. He hides among the cornstalks and breathes. He finds respite in the cool smells of the earth. But the sun is on him like a reminder.

His mind is bombarded. He remembers it all. Swayed by the drunken confidence and Bill’s confusing reassurances. He remembers what he had done. What he had committed to. Kissing a stranger. A strange man. In the darkness that was so different in the morning light, which was demanding an answer. What had it meant? What answer had he uncovered?

And that’s the thought that sours in Eddie’s mind. He remembered his answer from the first night. He remembers what he had forgotten. What Richie meant. That Eddie had these inclinations toward men which are evil and sour and beckon loneliness and hopelessness. And here Eddie was, ready to fall into the arms of a stranger, ready to become what he had for so long questioned.

These memories are the threatening walls, the straw house that’s going to be blown away. Because what Eddie had done was illegal. And not illegal like illicit alcohol drunk in the cover of night. Illegal like a one-way ticket to an asylum. Illegal like a guaranteed rearranging of the frontal lobe to cure yourself of sickness that’s sat within your heart since before you knew what evil was.

Sitting among the weeds that had sprouted their way through the cool dark earth and wrapped themselves, their poisonous grip around Eddie’s produce, his livelihood, Eddie feels his stomach turn over and he retches, puking up acid into the grass of his farm. He had answered the question he had been asking since childhood. The question that had lingered in his mind since he asked his mother why men only ever married women when other men were so handsome and she had smacked him so hard he felt his mind ring. The question that had been slapped into his heart through her hand, and the question that lingered even when she warned Eddie that what he was speaking of was disease. His mother had told his father that Eddie had come down with some sort of lunacy that night and Eddie, at the tender age of seven, was sentenced to his room, to be locked up for days, and fed only table scraps to starve off the illness. On the first day, all Eddie did was cry. On the second, Eddie swore he hated his mother. The hate didn't last. Neither did the tears. Instead, Eddie decided to change. To be who he needed to be. So, on the fifth day, he assured his mother that the fever had passed. On the sixth day, she let him out and they went into town together, to get him some fresh air, and Eddie made sure to comment on how pretty he found Ethel Roosevelt when he saw her picture in a newspaper. His mother bought him chocolate.

Eddie understood then that this question was to be locked in the deep corners of his mind. Because now, Eddie knew how he was supposed to think. The lingering parasite of worry wedged itself into the back of his mind, so Eddie fed it with concerns on health and safety and sickness. He could cure it away. When his mother died and he moved in with his aunt, Eddie hoped the thought might disappear like embers in a fireplace and sometimes it would.

But a day would pass, a day with clouds fat and heavy in the sky, where humid air would cling to his skin like fever, and Eddie would think of the postman, or the neighbor from two farms over, or the seasonal workers with tan sweaty skin and Italian accents, and suddenly the question would lurch through Eddie’s body like chill. Eddie would leap to his feet and run, and run, and run, until tears would fall from his face like raindrops and his lungs would ache, and his feet would burn like coals. He’d force images of girls into his mind, think of clear soft skin, long hair wrapped in his fingers, full red lips, but these images, these worthless images, would sit in his head like mud.

But now, Eddie had answered that question. Now, Eddie knew. He had run for so long, that he thought he had gotten away. But he hadn’t. Because as he sat there, forgetting the unstoppable chase, knitting strands of yarn with Richie’s hands, pressing his mouth against chapped lips, the question had snuck up and caught him. And he had let it. And he had answered it. And now, he could never go back.

Or, could he? Could he forget the question entirely? Could he have answered it only in a storm of alcohol and fog, then decide it was _an _answer, but not the right one? Could he walk back, thank Richie for a nice night, politely decline anything else, and show him to the door? Allow Richie to set off forever, leaving with his weird ring and his weird stories and his weird freckles, and leave Eddie to his cooling farmhouse, safe from the scorching sun that was blistering his skin? Could Eddie retreat to the cool loneliness, safe? Could Eddie be granted such forgiveness?

The thought settles his rushing heart, his panicked breaths. He’s clear of the fog, his calloused hand in front of him is clear as burning light, and he’s ready to return to reject this heat, reject this question, this dangerous, burning question.

.

Eddie farms. He skips breakfast, and lunch. He farms until his stomach is stretching inside of him, wrapping around itself and begging to be let rest. He farms until his muscles scream and his skin is burned and the sun finally gives up its battle to the moon, who offers him cool comfort.

So, when Eddie returns to the creaky softness of his farmhouse, he’s ready to do what he must. Do what he has to. Distance. Safety. Avoid the fog, and allow these past few days to be a fluke. A mysterious, dangerous fluke.

He walks straight to his room, avoiding the scorching sun in the spare bedroom where Eddie answered wrong, and peels off the sticky layers of his clothing. He’s practically naked, dressed only in his underwear when he hears Richie’s hobbling feet on the outside of his door. The sound lurches through Eddie’s lungs and he feels again like how he did on that first day, scared and vulnerable to the mysterious stranger outside his door. Had that been his fear along? Could he sense the dangerous heat of Richie? The blistering pull that yanked him in and forced his answer to bubble up through him like blood pouring from his mouth.

When Richie knocks, hesitant and quiet, Eddie almost wants to stay silent. He almost wants Richie to walk away forever, taking the secret of what they did together last night with him. Eddie wants to forget.

But his mouth still opens and he still says, “Uh, yeah?” with a voice that sounds like a boy’s, small and quiet.

“Can… can I come in?” Richie asks and Eddie realizes how scared Richie sounds. He must know that night was some sort of mistake. He probably doesn’t want anything more with Eddie. Good. It will make this easier.

Eddie says, “Sure” before he remembers that he’s only wearing his underwear.

Richie bursts through the door in a way that’s even more jumbly and fast than is normal for Richie and Eddie barely has time to choke out a, “Wait!”

Eddie covers his body where he can with his hands but Richie’s eyes travel, heavy and dark, along Eddie’s entire body. Then Richie goes red, and flustered, and he’s blinking hard and breathing heavy and so is Eddie for that matter. It’s tempting, so tempting, but Eddie knows this feeling, this intoxicating feeling with Richie only leads to heavy heat and inescapable prisons, so Eddie tries to force the thought from his mind. Richie starts stepping forward, reaching out with the arm that’s not supporting him via the cane, bringing that fog with him that clouds Eddie’s thoughts, erases his rationality and understandings.

“Wait, stop,” Eddie chokes out.

Richie freezes, so quickly, and so abruptly that Eddie almost wonders if he killed him in his tracks. His face is full of questions, that his mouth can’t seem to form, and Eddie looks away, because he doesn’t want to see what he’s about to say.

Eddie turns to his dresser, pulling out an undershirt to cover himself with, and, with Richie safely tucked out of Eddie’s sight, Eddie can finally say, “Last night was a mistake.”

The room stays silent, and Eddie begins to wonder if Richie heard him, so he dares a peak over his shoulder. He realizes that Richie definitely heard him. Because Richie’s face looks a mess, and his eyes are unfocused, staring at his hands, that are fiddling with the edge of his cane, carving his thumb into the polished wood. There’s no laughter, no traces of happiness on Richie’s lips, and it’s like his face is missing its essential component. Eddie did this.

But, then Richie’s face shoots up, and it’s like he realized he could be seen, because he breaks into a broken grin that’s betrayed by the glimmer in his eyes. “That’s okay, Eddie,” he says. “Don’t blame ya one bit. Was wonderin’ when you’d come to your senses.” Then Richie laughs, and it’s horrible, like grating metal, like when Eddie’s farm machinery is breaking down. It’s painful to hear.

“Uh,” Eddie says because this can’t be his fault. This is the right answer. Last night was a dream, a fluke, a mistake. A wrong answer, brought on by too-strong wine and silly promises. It was, _wasn’t it?_

“I’ll leave tomorrow morning,” Richie says. “My ankle, well, I think it’s all better. I’ll get outta your hair. Right, you do what you gotta do?”

Eddie is too dumbstruck to respond. He thought this would feel right. He thought this was the true answer, that this would set the world up straight again. He thought he had it figured out. Richie walks away, and Eddie feels himself go cold. The kind of cold he wanted, _right?_ The cold embrace of when he was finally let out of that room. The cold of his mother’s arms. The comfortable cold. His mother would be happy.

In the silence, Eddie moves to sit on his bed, which is also cold. Eddie hurts. He hurts to his core, with the image of Richie’s face stuck in his mind like a tune on repeat, a tune he can’t forget.

He sits there, and laments on this image. He laments on the question. He laments on his mother. And he wants to run. Wants to sprint and fly and travel for years, eons, endless distance until he’s sure he’ll never breathe again.

Restless, with the boundless energy supplied by pain and confusion, he shoots up, and walks like an engine. He’s ready to run through the night to avoid these conflicting thoughts, these unsettling ideas. He bursts through his bedroom door, rushes into the hallways, prepares to run. But he hears something in the still of the house. The empty bubble of silence and cold is punctuated by a distant sound. Vague gasps of breath. Hitching. _Fuck._

Richie is crying, by himself, alone in the spare room, and Eddie had caused it. He did this. He had hurt Richie like this. He had promised him connection in the form of pressed lips, and yanked it away the second he had doubted what it meant to kiss a man. He had caused this pain, this hurt. _Fuck. _

Then Bill is in his ear again, a quiet voice.

_“Eddie, it’s okay.”_

_“Mike and I are together.”_

_“You’re safe.”_

_“I love you, no matter what.”_

_“Richie likes you, too.”_

Eddie’s wrong. Again. He knows the answer. He always did.

Eddie bursts through Richie’s door and Richie scrambles, smacking away tears from his face like traitors. He’s smiling again, but not saying anything, and his face is still crooked and Eddie knows it’s an untrue promise. Eddie can see it.

“I’m scared,” Eddie says, the truth falling from his mouth like a ghost.

“Why?” Richie asks.

“Because,” Eddie says. “Of what happened. What… it was so much. But, it’s wrong, isn’t it? I’m wrong, aren’t I?”

“No, you’re not,” Richie says, and he’s serious. More serious that Eddie could think he was capable to be.

“What happened last night…” Eddie starts but can’t finish.

“I didn’t lose my job because of the Depression,” Richie says and Eddie is lost.

“What?”

“I wasn’t laid off. I was fired. I did something dumb, Eds.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I told my boss about me. I told him that I loved men. Eddie, we were _friends. _I thought I could trust him. I thought… I don’t know, Eds. But I told him, and he nodded. Then he fired me the next day,” Richie says, and his voice is choked, and those tears are falling again, freely.

“Oh,” Eddie says. Why was Richie telling him this? Is this not confirming what Eddie had said? Does this not mean that Eddie is right that he is wrong? That he is broken and deserving of nothing but cold?

“Yeah, I don’t know. The fucking bastard. He told everyone, Eds. Then they started leaving notes on my door. Not nice ones, if ya catch my drift. Nah, those words are gonna hold a special place in my heart for a while. Just the sheer creativity they had. All the different ways the Devil was gonna drag me down to Hell, you’d think I did something a little more special than putting dicks in my mouth, huh?”

Eddie goes hot, then cold. “Oh God,” he says, feeling his world turn over. This is what happened to sick people like him.

“Yeah, but, it didn’t change me. Those fuckers couldn’t scare the queer out of me,” Richie says. “They didn’t fix me. I still… I still am who I am. I still want men. Fuck- _no. _I still want _you, _Eddie.” The tears are falling faster, streaming down his face like sunshine. “But if you don’t want me back… that’s okay. I understand.”

“No,” Eddie says.

Richie nods, his mouth a tight line, and Eddie realizes he’s no good with words.

So, he rushes forward, grabs Richie’s wet face and kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him. He lets his doubts flow from his mind, and he’s crying too. He realizes it’s all not so bad. Maybe it’s the Richie fog or maybe it’s just him, letting himself answer that lingering, always revolving, always chasing question. Maybe he’s okay with the answer. Maybe he knew it all along.

In the cold night, they supply their own heat. They kiss and kiss. Eddie drags his lips across Richie’s unshaven healing face, tracing the edges of fading bruises, each kiss a promise to never hurt him again. He licks the outline of Richie’s lips, tracing the path he had set so long ago with that washcloth as it dragged away blood. Eddie wants to taste Richie forever. His fingers run through Richie’s hair, like water through a stream and he memorizes the feeling, like it’s the only thing he’ll want to hold for the rest of his life. Well, maybe not the only thing.

“Eds,” Richie says, and Eddie pulls away, and breathes again.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie responds, words having found him again.

“I just need you to know… fuck. I just. Eds, I know we just met, but… I like you. And.. I need you to know that being, well. The way we are. It’s okay. It’s not sick. It just… it just is,” Richie says.

The words reach Eddie and he trusts Richie so he nods. Besides, they’re safe here in the darkness of his home, surrounded only by fog and moonlight and the distant forest. And that’s enough for now. It’s enough.

So, Richie grabs Eddie by the hips and pushes up against him and Eddie gasps out, before he’s pushing himself down and grinding back against Richie, until Richie is breathing heavily, too.

“Don’t run away from me again, tomorrow, Eds,” Richie whispers out.

“Never,” Eddie admits, and he’s knows it’s true.

Eddie trails his tongue against Richie’s neck, and unbuttons Richie’s shirt, revealing those freckles that he had already begun to miss so much. He does what he wanted to do so many nights ago, and counts them with his lips, sucking the skin between his teeth, and running his mouth against Richie’s collarbone, his mouth wet and hot.

Eddie feels Richie’s shaking fingers working at his own shirt, pulling fabric up against Eddie’s tanned skin, and exposing him to the warming room.

Soon, they’re both naked, vulnerable bodies revealed to each other. Eddie realizes that they’re here because of trust. Richie trusted him to take him in, clean his wounds, and feed him. And Eddie trusted him into his life, to sleep with him in his house, and to hold him. It’s a trust he’s never known, and a trust he’ll hold for Richie.

Knowing this, Eddie falls into Richie, trusting him with his battered soul, atoms in a frenzy to Richie’s light. He accepts Richie into him and accepts himself as a man with so much love he thought he had to hide, confined to that stuffy room, an upside-down match, burning to its core.

And here he is, alive in Richie, pressing into his skin, accepting the urges that were hidden deep in his soul, breaking open like an egg.

When he and Richie have sex, it’s nothing like Eddie had ever experienced before. It’s raw and shocking, and by the end they’re both crying, consumed by emotion they never thought they could experience until each other. For a moment, in the unending light, Eddie understands. The images flit through his mind like sunlight through the shutters. He knows that he’s known Richie since the first explosion started it all. He found Richie in caves, painting truth for him, soulmates born in the forges of humanity. He’s laughed at Richie’s jokes, screamed his name in earnest, and begged him for more. He has cried for Richie before, so hard that he’s been sure his heart will crumble and pour out of him. He has revealed himself in every way he ever could, and loved Richie a million times over, died in Richie’s arms, and seen the light leave his eyes with nothing but the hope and trust that he will see him again and again, and the desperate plea that he won’t be far next time.

For a moment, he knows the answer and the question with impossible clarity. He knows who he is, who Richie is, who their souls have been and who their souls will be. The pain of it all is unrelenting, but the love and the beauty is more. There’s so much beauty.

But when he comes down, this truth is forgotten like deja vu that’s passed, erased like chalk, leaving behind only the dusty memories of feeling.

.

Eddie fell asleep, and didn’t awaken until the sun is halfway through the morning, and he heard the clanking of metal from the kitchen. Distant smells of cooking float toward him and grumble his stomach, so he pulls on Richie’s clothing, and walks to the kitchen.

Richie is precariously cooking, balanced on one leg, when Eddie strolls in, leaning against the door frame. Richie turns around, all happy big smiles and easy eyes.

They eat in silence, taking time to only glance at each other, rub their feet together, or squeeze at each others’ knuckles, lingering glances roaming across the table like heat.

Eventually, Eddie is forced to return to his farm, to do work, but his mind lingers on Richie’s hands, Richie’s hair, Richie’s tongue. He can barely focus on vegetables or on dirt and earth.

They come back together at night, two magnets pulled in like it’s their only purpose. And Eddie’s sore, so they tread more gently than either thought possible. They’re skin to skin, and open and honest and raw.

When Eddie whispers Richie’s name, it falls from his mouth like impossible truth.

.

The routine they settle into after that night is easy. They sleep together, having moved to Eddie’s bed, until the morning sun drags them awake. Eddie makes breakfast, and Richie sits, watching him, entertaining him with stories. Life on the road. Unbelievable farmers. Secret speakeasies where men fuck each other in bathrooms. Then they eat. Maybe they have sex again. Eddie farms. Richie knits. Then they eat the food that Eddie pulls from the earth. Farming. Knitting. Eating. Richie has almost finished a blanket.

One of those nights, when Riche’s ankle is basically healed, Eddie pulls out an old radio and it crackles to life in the center of the living room. He tunes it to a jazz station, crackly and distant, but soon the whole farmhouse is filled with music, smooth and full. They test out Richie’s ankle with a dance. It’s awkward and bumbling, and Richie jokes his way through half of it, but Eddie feels his heart bounding into Richie through the whole song, tying them together like a knot. Eddie worries he might be losing his mind in the moment because he’s so happy.

When the dancing becomes too much for Richie’s ankle, they sit back down, leaning against each other as they listen to the music flow through them.

“You always wanted to be a farmer?” Richie asks.

Eddie laughs. “No, not always. At one point, I thought that growing up to be a farmer would be a special kind of Hell.”

“Yeah? How you end up with this gig, then?”

“Well, I grew up in Texas. With my mother. Dad died when I was younger. He got sick,” Eddie says and Richie moves his hand on top of Eddie’s. So warm. It’s usually hard for Eddie to talk about this, but it’s easier with Richie. The trust cushions it.

“We had a farm there. I didn’t want to farm. Never wanted to. I wanted to be a banker of something. I hated that farm, Rich. It was small and ugly and my parents never let me do work on it. And it yielded basically nothing. It was awful.”

“You wanted to work? As a child?” Richie asks with a laugh.

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “I hated being cooped up. My mother thought I was fragile.”

“I think you’ve proven to me you’re not fragile in the slightest. Especially last night,” Richie teases with a wink.

Eddie blushes. “Well, then my mother died. I was twelve. So, I moved out here to live with my aunt. She wasn’t much better than them, but she let me work and run wild on her farm. I kinda fell in love with it. All that space. I could run as much as I wanted and I wasn’t fragile,” Eddie says.

“No, you sure aren’t,” Richie says. “I’m sorry about your parents.”

“Yeah. It’s how it goes, though, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Richie says. “Only rich folk got it easy. Keeping their parents and all. The bastards.”

Eddie laughs and kisses Richie.

“I want to see the world though,” Eddie says. “One day.”

“You could always come with me, Eds,” Richie laughs, but it’s tight. Like maybe he’s a little serious.

“I couldn’t leave my farm. Or Bill and Mike,” Eddie says, speaking out words he had been questioning for a while.

“They could survive without you,” Richie says, laughing, but the words, Eddie can tell, are true.

“I don’t have any other skills. All I can do is farming,” Eddie explains. It’s not like he hasn’t thought of this before.

“And cooking. And doctoring. And knitting,” Richie responds.

Eddie shoves him playfully. “I’m no doctor. Just to you, ya big dumb.”

“Whatever you say, _Doctah Eds. _But the offer is there. Always. Come with me. I’ll show you the road.”

It’s enticing. So tempting. So beautiful of an idea.

But it won’t work, and this Eddie knows.

.

Two nights pass and the content Eddie feels is unsurpassed. He almost doesn’t trust his own smile, lingering on his mouth. He doesn’t believe the breeze he feels he floats on. He doesn’t need to run, but he could. He could sprint all the way back to Richie’s arms.

He’s expecting the same from Richie, as he always receives, when he comes back to the farmhouse that night. But it’s gone.

Instead, Richie is crying, face contorted, and wet with tears on his couch. That old, familiar couch.

“Richie?” Eddie asks, terrified.

“Eddie, I have to leave. Tomorrow,” Richie responds.

“What? What the fuck? Why?” Eddie asks, feeling like all the air had been punched out of him.

“Eds, please,” Richie says, his eyes shiny.

“Don’t fucking call me that,” Eddie responds, and is shocked by the venom in it.

Richie winces and Eddie regrets it.

“Come on, Eddie. You know this. My ankle is better. And I can’t stay. This was going to happen, eventually. You can’t afford this,” Richie finishes.

“So why tomorrow? Why not next week? Next month? Or in the Spring?” Eddie asks, beginning to pace. He had _just _gotten Richie.

“Because…” Richie starts before breathing in deeply. "I’m falling for you. Completely. If I stay any longer, it will just hurt worse.”

“No,” Eddie says and suddenly he’s crying too.

“I’ll write,” Richie says. “And maybe, when I make it big an’ all, you can come visit, out in California. Hey, when I’m rich like that, I can return the favor of everything you’ve done for me.”

Richie’s joking, trying to cut through this tension, but it doesn’t work. Eddie dissolves into a mess of tears and pain. He turns his pacing, and walks straight to Richie, climbing into his lap and kissing him, his face, his neck, everything he can reach.

“Please don’t. Please stay,” Eddie begs between kisses, between breaths.

“It won’t work,” Richie says. “You can’t… you can’t afford it. I have to do this. God, I don’t fucking want to. I don’t want to fucking leave but I have to.”

Eddie chokes out a sob. “Fuck you,” he says before returning to Richie’s lips and kissing him until the moon rises and falls, knowing this is how it had to be. That this was where their story had to end. Because there was no money. There was no food. America was dying, and they were poor, and there was no room in desperation for soulmates.

.

The next morning is just more tears, more kisses, more pain. Richie is shaking.

“This isn’t forever, Eds,” Richie says.

Eddie shakes his head. _How could he say this? After everything?_

“I’ll come back. Once I have some money. Once we’re out of this shit and the country is back to nothin’ but money. This isn’t forever,” Richie repeats. “And I’ll write. Every state I’m in, I’ll send you a letter. I don’t know if you’ll be able to write back, but I’ll never stop. Once I’m in California, and I have money, I can call.”

“Okay,” Eddie answers but his heart isn’t there because Richie is leaving. Leaving him.

Richie’s bags are packed and he’s standing sturdy. When he walks down the path and into the woods, Eddie watches him until his eyes are strained and Richie is gone. And Eddie is alone. Again.

He walks back through the house, now only a ghost. His soul feels broken and empty. There had been something there. Something vivid. And now, his house is dull grey and freezing cold.

When he enters his bedroom, something glints in the light. He walks forward to see it. It’s Richie’s ring, lying on the blanket that Richie had finished. Dead center. A gift. A parting gift.

Richie had left it there. The ring he was willing to die for. _R.E._ A promise.

Eddie’s heart lurches, his soul lurches, and he’s running again. He’s running with every ounce of effort he can manage so he can find Richie, catch Richie, stop him from leaving. He’s chasing down the path that Richie walked. He doesn’t care about money, he never did. He doesn’t care about anything as tedious as money, and he knows they can figure it out. His farm flies past him and he feels faster than he’s ever felt. He’s crying, but it’s because he can see his future, laid out for him in shiny promise.

So, he runs to catch Richie. To drag him back. To promise him the world and swear he’ll never have to leave. To promise him that he’d want to be with Richie forever and that he can love him like he deserves. Love him forever.

So he runs. And he runs. And he runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck I'm sorry it took so long!!! Here I've gone again doubling my word count with just a new chapter lol. I knew this one would be long but I wasn't expecting this. I hope you all like it! And please leave a comment, I'd love to know what you thought. They mean a lot to me and I swear I've memorized like every single comment that's been left. Thank you again so much for reading.


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